


Find. (me. please.)

by TakeTheShot



Series: Hearttongue Universe [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon can do one, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluffy Moments, Get together fic, Hurt/Comfort, Injury (minor), M/M, Pining, Pre-Avengers (2012), Recruitment fic, References to unhappy childhoods, SHIELD, SHIELD Husbands, Tagged T because swearing, angst by the bucket, conversation about suicidal tendencies, eventually, no more tags because spoilers, not as bad as it sounds!, phlint - Freeform, typically clueless Clint and Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 89,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: Everyone has their soulwords written on their skin from birth, tracking the one person meant for themPhil Coulson has always hated his. What kind of a maniac would say that to him anyway? He's pretty sure he hopes never to find out.Clint Barton doesn't believe in his soulwords. He's heard them dozens of times from dozens of people. Why would he want to hear them again?Destiny never makes things easy.Set way before Avengers and totally not paying much attention to canon except to borrow bits I like.





	1. Chapter 1

“Soul mate, Soul fate,  
What have you got for me…”

The high-pitched sing-song chant filtered in through the open window and woke Phil Coulson from his doze with a groan. The sun was up, but barely. Since when did kids get up so early? And why did the ones in the yard next-door insist on skipping all the time? And with rhymes? While he definitely appreciated the vintage aesthetic, was it still the actual 50’s?

“Soul mate, Soul fate,  
Who’s it gonna be?”

Great, now he was going to have that rhyme going round and round in his head all day. Perfect when he would be trying to make a good impression on his first morning in his new posting. He levered himself out of bed and stumbled towards the shower, memory automatically filling in the rest of the chant along with the children’s voices and the rhythmic slap of the turning rope,

“First you _find,_  
And then you _bind_ ,  
And after that,  
Well, never-you-mind….

Soul mate, Soul fate…..”

The chant went round and round and once under the water, head clearing a bit, he smiled to himself. Kids had been singing that particular rhyme since time immemorial and he guessed they always would. Hell, he’d sung it himself when he was their age, though his Mother hadn’t really approved of the last…yep, there it was. The frustrated cry of,

“Tara! How many times have I told not to sing that song! What will the neighbours say?”

was muffled a little by the sound of the shower but still unmistakeably a Mother at full-throttle and the little voices dissolved into a chorus of “awww, Mooooom” before they gave in. The silence lasted only a few seconds before the rope started again, this time with a rhyme Phil didn’t recognise. 

He rinsed the shampoo from his hair and chuckled. He’d be willing to bet that the kids didn’t have any idea what they were singing about anyway with regards to never-you-mind, he certainly hadn’t back then. But he remembered being their age, when the whole concept of soulmates had been just so…fascinating. To think that there was someone out there, perfect to make you happy and for you to make happy in turn. Everyone had their words, written on their skin from birth, and to be so close to the age when they’d actually become readable and not just a set of dots and lines, to know what words your soulmate would say to you that would allow you to _find_ them, it had all been the topic of endless school-yard conversations and hysteria when he was ten or eleven. 

Of course, after puberty kicked in and they’d realised that they didn’t necessarily _have_ to _find_ or _bind_ before the ‘never-you-mind’ there had been other, more…immediate things to talk about. Hormones, crushes and the agonies of dating had taken the focus off the soulmate question a little. But still, almost everyone speculated what their words would say, or what their friends would have and what kind of person it would lead them to, what kind of a life it would bring. 

What kind of a life…. Phil sighed and shut off the water.

He resolutely didn’t look at his words, while he towelled off. Or while he dressed in his new suit (impeccably tailored as always but perhaps in fabric a little more costly now that he was graduated from the training academy and posted. Nothing showy, but he was a full-fledged Agent now, and he was determined to look it).

He never looked at his words if he could help it. 

The day they came in, he’d been so excited, nervous but excited, and dying to know what they would reveal about his eventual soulmate. Sent home from school by knowingly-smiling teachers because he couldn’t stop scratching at the place where they scrawled across his chest and almost maddened by the heat and itch, he’d endured the world’s longest bus-ride and then almost given his Mom a coronary by bursting into the house and stripping off his shirt right then and there in front of the big hallway mirror. She’d come to stand beside him, taken his hand while he’d stared and strained until his eyes watered. Then, at last, the marks seemed to shift on his skin and suddenly, they were words. He’d read them and gasped, felt the blood draining from his face.  
“Well?” His Mom had asked, “Can you read them?”  
It had been the first time he’d been glad that only you could read your soulwords, at least until you found and matched your soulmate. Glad that, to her, they remained a random pattern of marks.  
“Yes.”  
“And?” She’d been so pleased for him, so eager for any hint of his future.  
“And yes, I can read them.”  
He’d picked up his shirt, kissed her on the cheek and gone up to his room before his face could give him away. She’d never asked again, and he’d never told. He didn’t need to see his Mother cry.

With a start Phil came back to himself, realised he’d been staring in the mirror, glaring at his shirt as if daring it to reveal the words it covered. He shook his head; he did not have time this morning to be gnawing on old and pointless bones. He wasn’t a kid anymore he was a grown man and he had new, important work to be getting to. Taking one last glance at himself, he practised his best ‘I got this’ smile, grabbed his keys and headed out.

>>===>>

The bus downtown was crowded with the morning rush and Phil found himself crushed into the aisle, stuck standing next to the seat of two older teenage girls who were chatting away like giggly machine guns. And, of course, there was only one topic under discussion. Seemed the whole world was obsessed with soulmates today.

“I know exactly what to say, thank you, Little Miss Are-You-Sure-About-This,” one of them exclaimed triumphantly to the other, “I have his words!”  
“Lacie, you do not!”  
“I do! He told them to his sister who told them to her girlfriend and she told then to Sarah, Sarah told Mike and Mike told me. So I do have them! And I’m going to meet him today and say them and then he’ll find me and he’ll say mine…”  
“Do you even read yours yet?”  
“Of course I do, you’re just jealous because you’re still illegible. Annnyway, he’ll say my words and we’ll match, just like that. It’ll be beautiful!”  
“And what if you don’t say his words right? What if you don’t know his hearttongue?”  
“Alex! Are you trying to ruin my big day? _Of course_ I’ll know his hearttongue, it’s _destiny_ ….hey, quick, it’s our stop!”

Phil tried not to snort as the girls got up and squeezed down the aisle, their voices cutting off as the door shut behind. Hearttongue. The title romantics gave to the idea that you didn’t just have to say your soulmate’s words, you had to say them _righ_ t. Had to be speaking their language, as it were. 

He supposed it would explain why although most people could _find_ as soon as they met, it very occasionally took a few days or weeks longer before the _find_ happened, this idea that you couldn’t match your soulmate until they could speak the language of your heart. And maybe happened that way for some people. His Mom, a music teacher, hadn’t had her _find_ for his dad the morning they met at theatre group but in the afternoon when she heard him sing. And then there was his friend from the Academy, May, who spoke Chinese not because she was born there but because of her soulwords. She’d moved to the USA when she was five and rebelled against the Chinese part of her heritage until her words had come in as characters and she’d finally attended the lessons her parents had always begged her to so that she could learn to understand them. And yes, she admitted that learning the language again had been like finding a missing piece of herself as well as being handy for the job, so he guessed that could be called a hearttongue, even if she hadn’t made her _find_ yet.

But to Phil it mostly sounded hopelessly self-deluding, just a way for girls like these two to convince themselves that the guys they had crushes on could still turn out to be their soulmates because of some nebulous ‘inner language’, when really all it was, was circumstances. The words were just words, no hidden messages. 99.9% of the time, people met and there was either a _find_ or there wasn’t, simple.

Phil realised he was absently tracing a hand across his left collar-bone, just above where his words were and snapped his hand down quickly, scowling. Hearttongue be damned, it was a nice idea but when it came to whoever was going to say his own words? If that phrase said something about their ‘inner language’, or even his, he had absolutely no desire ever to hear it.

And the thought of ever taking it a step further and making a bind with that person? An indelible, permanent link between souls which was touted by pretty much everyone as the very best life could offer? It somehow didn’t seem very likely.

Besides, he had his work to do, and he was sure there was plenty of it already waiting at his new desk. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes. Plenty of time to grab a coffee to go.

>>===>>

 

The queue at the Starbucks nearest his new base took forever and Phil began to wonder if he should have skipped the caffeine fix. Abhorrent as the idea of tackling the whole day with nothing but office machine coffee was, he couldn’t be late. As he neared the front he spotted what was causing the hold up, the barista manning the machine today was clearly a flirt and the customers were lapping up his patter, happy to exchange a few minutes and an extra tip for a well-shaped compliment. And who could blame them? The guy was a looker, just a bit rugged, with seriously great arms and while Phil might be in a hurry, there was always time to appreciate a cheeky smile and a well-formed set of biceps. He watched with a mixture of intrigue and impatience, as the barista sent one customer away smiling and turned to chat to the cute red-headed guy next in line. Phil was _just_ about to give up on both the flirt and the coffee and step out, when a sudden burst of blinding light made him screw up his eyes. 

A soulflare. 

The barista had obviously gotten more than he’d expected with the red-head. The barista’s friendly chat-up line must actually have been the other man’s soulwords and saying them set off his soulflare, the light which was an unmistakeable signal that a _find_ had been made. There was a moment of astonished, tight, silence then, as the red-head spoke, a second flash of light when the barista’s soulflare went up. The whole café let out its collective breath before bursting into riotous applause for the bemused but smiling pair now holding hands at the counter. Phil joined in, clapping as hard as the rest of them, as was traditional and polite. A matched- _find_. Two souls meant to be together had found each other. Their words would become readable, made clear and coloured by their new partner, they’d no doubt date for a while, get to know each other and then probably decide to _bind_ , maybe in one of those increasingly-popular-but-mawkish new ceremonies, before living happily ever after. At least Phil hoped so. 

Just because he couldn’t have it, didn’t mean he would begrudge anyone else.

Realising that coffee would not be likely to happen any time soon now that the barista had more important things to concentrate on, he gave up the caffeine hunt and hurried the last few blocks. Honestly, the kid’s rhyme this morning, the girls on the bus and now an actual _find_ right in front of him, he wondered if the universe was deliberately trying to make him think about soulmates, today of all days. Because it was almost ironic, he tried never to think about his soulwords but he had to admit it, they were the reason he was even here. Once he’d read them he knew he had to make sure he would be able to deal with what happened if his words were ever said. So, when the research for his final History degree dissertation had thrown up one too many mentions of a shadowy agency who seemed to have more than a hand in actually shaping history and then the actual agency had come to see who was following their trail and ask if he’d like to join them, he’d said yes. 

Because when the words your soulmate would apparently say to you were,

**“Don’t twitch. Don’t even twitch, or you’re dead.”**

Phil figured you would need all the help and training you could get if you wanted to survive the _find_. And where better to get it than a secret extra-governmental, military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency?

So, as much as he hated them, he supposed those words had shaped his life anyway.

He rounded the final corner, stopped and couldn’t help the grin that appeared as he looked up at The Triskelion, his post-graduation posting. A surge of pride rose in his chest and behind those stupid words his heart swelled. Fuck them. Fuck the whole damn soulmate business. If and when his _find_ came, he knew that he’d be okay, because it turned out that he was good at this, combat, espionage, escape, all that agent stuff. He’d been near top of his class in the Academy and was so full of new skills. He’d live. And if he never got to _bind_? Well. Why would he want to _bind_ with a maniac who’d use that as an opening gambit anyway? No, he would be fine as he was. 

He adjusted his tie, straightened his spine and walked through into head quarters, ready to see what his new posting would bring, ready and willing to meet it head on.

Because he was Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. And he had a world to protect.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've been a bit overwhelmed by the wonderful comments and kudos and conversations you guys have given me over chapter one. Thank you so much, it really means the world! This is turning into the longest and most complicated fic I've ever written and your encouragement is keeping me going. You're stars! xxx

**Eight years later**

“Good afternoon Agent Coulson, good to have you back.”

Phil smiled at the woman as she slipped through the Triskelion elevator doors just before they closed.

“And you Agent May. Shouldn’t you be at the Academy terrorising baby agents on their combat rotation? My apologies, I of course meant _training._ ”

“It isn’t proper training if they don’t feel a little terror now and again, you know that,” May answered, somehow managing to smirk while at the same time maintaining a perfectly straight face. Phil marvelled at her skills. “Actually I’m just calling in before I head back, I took a little leave while you were on op, went to see Andrew.”

“Ah, Andrew. And how is the good doctor? Learned any more Chinese?”

May scowled. “Shut up Coulson.”

“Oh, come on May, you have to admit, it was a little funny. You spent all that time re-learning Chinese so you could speak to your soulmate, and then it turns out he went back-packing round Asia as a teenager and retained precisely two sentences. One,” he gestured to her shoulder where he knew her soulwords were, now showing in pale blue since her _find_ almost a year ago, “‘Hello Gorgeous’. And what was the other?”

“You know full well.”

“Aw, May, say it for me, it’s better when you say it.”

“‘Do you speak any English?’ ” she sighed, the breath turning to an indignant huff when Phil laughed. So much for theories of hearttongue.

“Okay okay, I’m sorry. I just love the irony. But how is he? Really?”

“He’s good. Great even.” And now she did smile, a tiny twitch of the lips that might have gone unnoticed to anyone else but on her was as good as a fanfare. “We’ve talked about _binding_.”

Phil’s guts twisted a little with envy. Yet another of his friends. But he should concentrate on her, this was a big thing. He pulled up a smile, “That’s great May, it really is. I’m happy for you.”

She wasn’t fooled for a second. “I know you are. And don’t worry, we won’t be making a fuss, we’ll keep it private, declaration of consent and the touch to seal the deal, nothing fancy. Doesn’t mean you’ll get out of coming to the party afterwards though.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying.”

The elevator stopped and May got out, then turned and propped the door open with her foot. “It will happen for you Phil, you’re bound to _find_ soon. And then…”

“I know, and then,” he affected an airy tone, “ ‘the world will seem different’.” Reverting to his normal voice he grimaced. “Maybe May, but I’m not holding my breath. Let me go now, I need to get moving again.”

“To the top?”

“All the way to Fury.” He shrugged round the pile of files he was holding. “Mission reports.”

“Urgh. I heard.” May made a surprisingly childish face, sticking out her tongue just as the doors slid closed again. “Good luck with that.” 

>>===>>

 

The problem with luck Phil thought, moving up, was that it was just luck. And at the minute he didn’t seem to be having any, not in any quarter. 

Not in his personal life, because, while during the eight years since he’d started with S.H.I.E.L.D. he’d come to realise that there were plenty of ways for his words to not immediately mean imminent death and he’d also gotten over his bolshy, cocky, youthful dismissal of the idea of a soulmate, still nobody had said them. Despite his job, where danger pretty much lurked around every corner. He might have chosen S.H.I.E.L.D. at first as a way to survive his words, but surely shouldn’t it have been the perfect place to hear them? Apparently not. And if he was honest, it was starting to get to him, to be thirty-two and unmatched. Always coming home to Senior-Agent’s quarters that were nicely appointed but empty. The handful of well-meant but ultimately hollow, relationships that never evolved beyond ‘casual’ or ‘fond’ because there was always this sense that they were both waiting for someone else. And, of course, watching his friends one by one _find_ and _bind_ while he was left resolutely single. He knew he had it better than most, important work, respect, good friends, hell, he could even have fairly regular sex if he wanted to go out and find it, but knowing that out there somewhere was his supposed destiny-chosen perfect partner took the shine off the gloss a little. 

He was getting tired of being alone. Even a _find_ that led to a platonic _bind_ like some had would be something. He just wanted….someone. Of his own. For the first time ever since his words came in, Phil was actually starting to hope he’d hear them. 

And as for work…well, it should be said that this was not his best week.

>>===>>

“Again?” Director Fury exclaimed, throwing the file Phil had just passed him back to the desk. “It mother-fucking happened again?”

“Yes,” Phil sighed, “But…”

“Oh no.” Fury cut him off, “You do not get to give me any ‘but’ Cheese. We are trying to locate a rogue scientist group who we think is making a highly experimental ‘Steve Rogers’ type serum-drug and you’re telling me S.H.I.E.L.D. has been beaten to the punch? For the third fucking time?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Was it the same as all the others?”

“It was.” Phil leaned over the desk and spread out a group of operation photos. “Just like before, the traffickers were exactly where intel told us they would be, an office block this time, but by the time our team worked their way in they were all taken out. All four dead. So there’s no-one to question. For the third time. But it’s pretty obvious it was the arrow-guy again.”

“And the serum?”

“Gone. No sign of it.”

“Mother- _fucker_!”

Phil was quite inclined to echo his boss. He’d been tracking this group for a while and the drug they were attempting to distribute could be extremely hazardous if it got out into the hands of the general public. Or at least that section of the public who would be interested in ill-gotten super-strength. Which was, despite Phil’s attachment to the long-lost Captain America, not his favourite group of people. 

So far they’d only got a handle on the distribution ring and not the source so it was vital that S.H.I.E.L.D. worked out where the serum was coming from and Phil had devoted a considerable amount of time and resources to attempting to do just that. But the problem was, despite those resources (and they were pretty impressive) each and every time Phil had sent in a team to break up the deal and seize some of the traffickers to interrogate, they’d been beaten to it. Every time. By some unknown element who, according to the bodies left behind, used no less than a damn bow and arrow to take out the targets! 

It was more than annoying, it was mortifying. 

Arrow-guy (the description had quickly become a name) never left anyone alive at the scene so they hadn’t yet been able to get any intel that would lead them back to the source of the drug and the drug itself was always gone, only scant packaging left to show it had been there. Even with S.H.I.E.L.D’s established network of underground contacts, they were hard-pressed to keep abreast of the deals being brokered. As it was Phil had had to flex every single one of his well-built espionage muscles to keep the operation as on track as it was. Which, to be fair, was not very.

And as for Arrow-guy, he (assuming it was a he) was good. S.H.I.E.L.D. had no idea who he was, how he was involved or why he was getting in their way. He never left a trace of himself behind save the wounds on the bodies, he made it in and out without anyone seeing him and always was just a tiny bit ahead of the agency. He was very good. If Phil wasn’t so pissed, he’d be honestly impressed.

“Coulson.” Fury spoke, breaking Phil out of his thoughts, “We have to stop this vigilante mother-fucker. Not only is he holding up our investigation, he is also making us look bad, which is a major pain in my ass! Tell me you have good news.”

“I do actually. We got word not even an hour ago that there’s an exchange being arranged for tomorrow. I’m assembling my team now and we have the informant in our custody, so she won’t be sharing the information with anyone else. Authorise me a quinjet and we can be there in three hours, which has to be ahead of anyone else, even Arrow-guy. This time we will get one of these goons to talk to, and some samples to properly analyse. And Arrow-guy will not be a problem. I guarantee it.”

“Right.” Fury stood and walked over to his window, gazed out over the Triskelion plaza. “Forgive me Cheese, but I don’t really see how that is any different from how you’ve set up the last few ops. What makes you so confident this time?”

Phil smiled his small smile. “This time I’ll be going in first.”

>>===>>

 

Going in first hadn’t worked out quite how he’d planned.

As he’d crawled through the rafters of the latest deal venue, clocking and then ignoring the dizzying drop down to the stone floor below, Phil hadn’t been able to help feeling pretty pleased. The building was still quiet, the dealers hadn’t yet arrived the team was in place outside and best of all, there’d been no sign of Arrow-guy. Perfect. 

The moment he’d heard where this deal was going to happen, a fairly old and abandoned chapel on the outskirts of a small town, Phil had pulled up the building’s plans and seen exactly how he was finally going to get his advantage. It was all in the arrangement of the building, and the vantage points that arrangement allowed, which wasn’t many. He’d spent the entire quinjet ride over picking out what would be the perfect position for Arrow-guy. Nowhere overlooked, somewhere out of the way but with a clear view of the interior of the building. Not too small because, allowing for depth and angle of penetration, his previous arrows had been shot from a pretty substantial bow and the space would need to allow for that. Probably somewhere close to the roof for easy access and exits 

It was a fairly demanding list. 

But then he’d spotted the service ladders leading to the small platform alcove above the choral balcony which would have allowed maintenance access to the top of the chapel’s pipe organ and he’d just known. It was the perfect spot, high, fairly obscured from view by the other balconies and statuary but yet with clear sightlines of the floor below where the deal would take place, exactly where a vigilante archer would choose to hide. 

And from then on the plan had been simple. Phil would enter the chapel ahead and alone, take position in the chosen spot and wait for Arrow-guy to show. When he did, take him out and restrain him for questioning, allowing the rest of the team to crash the party below and secure the drug samples as well as the traffickers. A milk run, like hundreds of ops before it. Getting to the platform alcove without using the service ladder itself and leaving an obvious trail in the decades of dust had been a little tricker, but in the end drainage points and rafters were always a decent option and Phil made it up with only a little grime marring the black of his tactical jacket. The view was good, the shadows dark enough to hide in and his plan was going exactly as expected.

So yeah, he’d been feeling pretty pleased with himself.

The feeling had lasted precisely until he’d felt the cold prick of a sharp metal point at the base of his skull. An arrow tip, most likely. Because in all Phil’s planning there had been one thing that, with their fresh intel and rapid response time, just seemed too unlikely to need accounting for, and it had just happened. 

Somehow, Arrow-guy had made it there first.

Phil stood rigid as behind him a darker shadow detached itself from the rest of the blackness surrounding the alcove and moved closer, the needle of the metal against his neck never wavering. How fucking stupid! Phil didn’t know if Fury would piss his pants laughing at this or kick his ass for him. He only hoped he’d get chance to find out. There was a sense of a large, solid body (Arrow-guy was definitely a guy then) and then an arm snaked silently round to press a second cold point into the softness of his throat, right over his pulse point. He hissed at the sting and then froze as movement broke his skin and a slick warmth trickled down his neck. Standing frozen, weighing up his options (what in hell were his options?!) Phil tried very hard not to breathe.

The body behind pushed closer and Phil felt Arrow-guy’s breath as words hissed into his ear,

“Don’t twitch. Don’t even twitch, or you’re dead.”

>>===>>

In the nanosecond before his soulflare went up, Phil Coulson managed to have three thoughts. The first, ‘ohgodohgodohgodthoseweremydamnsoulwords’ was little more than a gabble and not entirely helpful. The second, ‘I guess they were linked to imminent death after all, ten points to teenage me’ was pretty much just as useless, but thankfully his third was firmly connected to his training and reminded him that while he knew what was coming, Arrow-guy didn’t and that he would have only moments to take advantage. And then his flare shone.

“Shit!” momentarily blinded by the sudden heat and brightness blazing from Phil’s chest, Arrow-guy fell back, lifting the point from Phil’s throat. Phil used the gap to bring up his own arm and knock the arrow away before spinning and planting a hefty kick to his assailant’s stomach which took him gasping to his knees. At the same time he ripped his gun from its holster and levelled it squarely at Arrow-guy’s forehead. The whole manoeuvre had taken seconds and while Phil was panting heavily his hand did not shake.

“Shit.” Arrow-guy repeated through hoarse gasps, spitting on the floor and glaring balefully up at Phil through the gloom. “Did you just _find_ for me? You have _got_ to be kidding.”

Disarmed, his bow lying out of reach and a spread of purple arrows scattered on the floor, the man looked different than Phil was expecting somehow. Younger. Dressed in some outfit that was half black leather and half dark purple fabric, a bizarre combination of sleeveless tacsuit and battered fancy-dress costume. There were even a few stray sequins. Quiver on his back, arms muscled to the hilt and visibly shaken, he still managed to stare at Phil as if looks actually could kill. 

Phil tried to gather his frantically racing thoughts; this meant…this meant that…that Arrow-guy was…. 

“Come on then, Suit,” The interruption was bitter, “say something. Let’s get this over with.”

Phil’s brain blanked. The next words would arguably be some of the most important of his life and he felt the burden of them on his tongue already. What on god’s earth could they be? His heart hammered and the silence stretched for an uncomfortably long moment before Phil took a deep breath. Arrow-guy screwed up his eyes and braced himself.

“I was not expecting all the purple.”

There was a long moment when nothing happened and then…

Nothing happened again.

Arrow-guy gradually opened his eyes again and glanced around, rubbed his forearm before offering Phil a tiny, crooked, apologetic half-smile.

“Sorry man. I guess not.”

Still holding his gun steady Phil allowed his eyes to shut briefly as he breathed out heavily to combat the sick lurch of his sinking heart and tried to comprehend what had just happened.

His words had been said, his soulflare had shone, but Arrow-guy’s hadn’t. Phil knew what that meant. He was an Unrequited _find_.

Arrow-guy was Phil’s soulmate, but Phil wasn’t his.

>>===>>


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bit shorter this one but the next is pretty much done and should be up somewhat quicker.
> 
> Again, my real and genuine thanks to you all or your responses and comments, I'm so touched! Thank you for reading xxx
> 
> Warning: Some mention of domestic abuse in this one, in the context of Clint's past. Just a of couple lines, no details and done by paragraph four but you know what you need to avoid. Read safe!

In the opinion of Clinton Francis Barton, variously known as Clint, Barton, The Amazing Hawkeye or ‘that pain in my ass’, soulmates were a crock of shit.

There’d been a time when he hadn’t thought that. Despite watching how even being a matched _find_ and _bind_ hadn’t prevented his parents from spiralling into a morass of bad choices and misery and hadn’t saved his Mom from his Dad’s sharp tongue or even when things got bad, his fists, despite all that he’d still been like any other kid once. Intrigued by the unintelligible pattern wrapping his left forearm and absolutely dying to know what it would say and more importantly who would say it.

Hell, on the nights when the screaming was at its worst the only things that stopped him from going mad were his brother Barney’s arms holding him tight and the fantasy of what his soulmate would be like running through his head. Even when they abandoned home for the circus and Barney grew more and more distant those thoughts had helped sustain him. Cleaning up horse shit, wrestling scenery, ropes or drunken clowns twice his size and the endless, endless acrobatic, gymnastic and flexibility drills he’d had to perform hadn’t seemed half as bad as they could have when he kept his brain elsewhere. Mastering the basics of picking pockets, sleight of hand and petty theft was a mere sideshow to the story he constructed for himself. Even the punishments doled out when he mistimed a tumble or fumbled a lift could be pushed away while the ache stopped and the sting faded. Because, one day, it would get better.

Clint’s soulmate, he was convinced, would be able to show him a way out of all this. His soulmate wouldn’t be from this world of sawdust, faux spangles and lies. He or she would be better, come from better, and would help Clint learn how to be better. 

Until then, he would make the best of what he had and he would be the best at what he did because he would need to have something to offer in exchange. And yeah, his skills might be a bit unorthodox, but who knew what his soulmate would find useful? Maybe one day an apex circus tumbler would catch the eye of a bonafide talent scout, or even a slick pick-pocket could be spotted by a kindly cop who would have a kid his age, or….shit, he didn’t know how it would happen, alright? He just knew it was coming, it had to be coming.

Then one day the circus’ stunt-master and very own Fagin rip-off, Trickshot, had decided to capitalise on Clint’s propensity for throwing very small projectiles at very small targets and actually hitting them. He’d put a bow in his hands and told him he was going to have a new act. Clint had honestly wondered for a moment if it was possible for your soulmate to be an inanimate object, because nothing had ever felt so right in his hand. And he was a pubescent boy, so that was saying something.

He’d practised and practised until he sweated; grew calluses on his fingertips, new muscles down his back and an expertise that would shame Robin Hood. He worked for the security and prestige and safety that being ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’ brought, for the roar of the crowd which grew louder and louder with each showy shot, for the extra tips that went towards keeping Barney’s head above water with the loan sharks. He worked for the sheer love of the bow and the joy of controlling his skill to place the arrow exactly where he wanted it time after time. And he worked so that when he made his _find_ , his soulmate, the person meant for him, the one person he would be able to rely on, would have something to be proud of. 

So sure, he’d had faith in destiny once. Before.

>>===>>

Clint’s words came in later than most and he was past twenty when he felt that tell-tale burning itch. He’d spent the day in a near-frenzy of hot anticipation, eagerly waiting to see the clue that would guide him towards his new life, but when his marks actually had shifted to become words that excitement had quickly curdled to a cold weight of disappointment. Instead of the something special he’d been expecting they were just… trash. 

A rehash of the same tired old bullshit phrase he’d heard from pretty much every authority figure he’d ever met in his whole life. 

Teachers (“Clint, you can speak to me. If there’s anything you want to talk about. You know, at home”), doctors (“You really should talk Clint, nobody falls down this much.”), cops (“Talk Barton! Talk or you’ll only make things worse for yourself.”), his father (“Talk to me boy! Tell me where she hid the bottles!”), Barney (“For fuck’s sake, speak to me Clint, I had to take our savings, I had to, you know I had to!”), even the handful of partners he’d managed to scrape ‘relationships’ with while still on the road (“Clint, we need to talk….”). 

Everyone asking him to talk, demanding he give them parts of himself and nobody ever actually listening. And now apparently his soulmate was going to be the same.

Well fuck that.

Clint’s pretty fantasy popped like a soap bubble. The last thing he needed was someone else laying down rules and trying to control him. From that moment on he’d decided to grow up and rely just on himself, live in the now. He had his bow and his skills and he would make something of them. Strapping on his showy costume arm-brace, he’d covered his soulwords up. From now on, he would be by himself and for himself. 

So he’d worked harder, saved harder and bought a way out of the circus for himself and Barney, used his archery to make a living however he could; private parties, paid performances, pest control. A little petty crime here and there. He wasn’t proud of it, but if it made him the dollars, he would do it. They were by no means rich but they got by, until Barney picked up his old habits of building up debts and making promises he couldn’t keep to the wrong sort of people and they’d had to run and run again until finally the road ran out.

Which had led to the whole shit-show sequence of events that had finally put him here, on his knees in some old church in front of some suit whose soulflare had just shone for him.

So yeah, soulmates were a crock of shit.

>>===>>

Gasping and somehow suddenly down on his knees Clint blinked up through the fading flare at the man now levelling a gun at his forehead. He looked, to be totally honest, just as shocked at Clint was feeling. Clearly he hadn’t expected this to be part of his day either.

“Shit.” He found himself saying, “Did you just _find_ for me? You have _got_ to be kidding.”

Because wasn’t this guy just the picture of everything he was trying to avoid? Not old, but still older than him, neat and efficiently put together, handsome in an ordinary kind of way, clearly wearing a goddamn tie under his uniform jacket and, judging by the way he’d managed to put Clint down, some sort of military-type, combat ready, control freak. And apparently going to be his soulmate. Awesome.

Though Clint had to admit, he was just a tiny bit…tired. As he knelt in front of the suit the old fantasy rose up unbidden. Someone to share the burden with. To help him a make decisions and who he could actually rely on. Someone who would help show him a new life. He risked glancing up. Was there something in those eyes that said this suit could be that? Was it too much to hope for? His belly clenched.

The suspense was killing him.

“Come on then, Suit,” Clint couldn’t keep the bitterness of fear from his voice, “say something. Let’s get this over with.”

Suit took a deep breath and Clint braced himself for the flash of light but instead of the order he expected to hear barked, a soft, controlled voice said,

“I was not expecting all the purple.”

Of course, nothing happened. 

Clint was not expecting all the disappointment. 

So Suit wasn’t his soulmate then. Aw, soulwords, no. He rubbed at the bracer on his forearm as if friction could make the words activate and looked back up at Suit.

“Sorry man. I guess not.”

Suit’s eyes closed for just the tiniest second and the saddest look Clint had ever seen ghosted quickly but so deeply across his face that Clint really was sorry, before a neutral expression dropped into place like a shutter.

“No matter. Not your problem.” Suit lowered his gun and offered Clint a hand up, apparently the recent revelation had made him decide Clint could be trusted. To a point. He didn’t put the gun away. “I’m Agent Phil Coulson, I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Does that mean anything to you?”

Clint huffed a laugh. “Someone really wanted your initials to spell ‘shield’?”

“Yes, well spotted.” Suit, no, _Coulson_ , rolled his eyes. “I’m with S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s our job to deal with situations like the exchange happening here today. And I’m afraid you Mr….”

“Barton.”

“You, Mr Barton, have been very much in our way. Which is why I’m here.”

“What?” Clint exploded indignantly, “In your way how? I’ve been dealing with these bastards and apparently doing your job for you! You might have noticed that not one single one of these deals has gone down well for them and there are a lot fewer drug-trafficking scumbags using the Earth’s good oxygen. You should be thanking me!”

Coulson’s voice was smooth, tight. And apparently deeply sassy. “Yes, well, while I will admit that I’m intrigued to know exactly how you managed to stay ahead of us, I would be a lot more thankful if you’d realised that finding the source of this drug is more vital than just stopping these small deals. We need someone to give us that source and scumbags are much better at talking when they don’t have arrow-holes through their necks.”

Clint felt rage flare in his gut. How the hell did this guy think he was? “I know perfectly well…”

“I’m sure you do,” Coulson cut him off, “and you can tell us all the whys and wherefores later when we debrief you. Right now, given your previous actions, I’m assuming that you’re just as invested in getting this drug off the streets as we are so…”

“Just as invested? Just as invested?” He hissed through his teeth, trying to resist the urge to knock this fucking guy right off the platform, soulflare or no soulflare, “The bastards behind this shit used my brother as a guinea pig and it killed him. So yes I’m fucking well invested!”

Coulson’s face softened. “Mr Barton, I am sorry for your loss. Truly.” he said, genuine sounding sorrow in his voice. “And S.H.I.E.L.D. will make sure that they get the justice they deserve. Once we find the source. Which is why…”

“But I’m trying to tell you…”

“ _Which is why_ ” Coulson repeated, “I need you to stay out of it this time. You need to exit the building and report to a member of my team outside. Let the professionals handle the situation.”

Clint spluttered, “Report? Professionals? For fuck’s sake! You need to listen…”

“Shhhh.” Coulson held up a finger, silencing Clint. “Damn. We’re too late.”

Clint strained to listen and sure enough the sound of voices approaching from two different directions floated up to where they froze in the alcove. Far below doors opened and two pairs of figures walked to meet in the centre of the chapel space, one carrying a small metal case between them. The deal was going down.

>>===>>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so not a quickly as I would have liked, flipping real life. How dare it? 
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments, your points of view are really interesting and so valuable, many many hugs to you all.

Clint crouched and peered over the edge, thankful for the balance given him by his days on the high-wires. They were only ten or so feet above the choral gallery but the drop below that to the black and white floor was much longer. And that floor was hard tile. Beckoning Coulson to crouch beside him, Clint whispered, 

“You want me to take them out? Clear shot from here, only four of them. I can do them all before they even know what’s happening. Easy.”

“No.” Coulson was firm. “I’ve already told you we need them for questioning.”

“But…”

“No buts. Besides,” his tone changed, lightened and Clint looked sideways. Coulson was smiling, a tight little smile that set his eyes twinkling. And, Clint couldn’t help noticing, suddenly they were very nice eyes. Wait, what? “Besides, I have a plan that’s much more fun.”

“Fun? You get off on this or something?” Clint asked, surprised. Suits did not, in his experience, usually sound like children in a candy store when faced with danger.

“Nonsense Mr Barton,” Coulson whispered his denial, even though the twinkle was still there. “This is my job, that’s all. Now, are you ready?”

“For…?”

“Follow me.”

Clint scooped up his bow, slotted it into place over his shoulder and followed, half wondering why he was doing it and half dying to know what would happen next. Coulson made for the service ladder and they silently descended to the choral balcony. Below, the quiet voices continued as the traffickers negotiated. Coulson pointed upwards.

“See that beam there? Does it look strong to you?”

Clint squinted up and sighted the chunk of wood. “It’s doing a pretty good job of holding up the roof, so I’d have to say yes.”

“Excellent. Keep an eye on what happens down there.”

“Why?”

Coulson’s shout was crazily loud and echoey in the silent chapel,

“HEY! HEY YOU DOWN THERE! WE’RE UP HERE AND WE’VE COME TO STEAL ALL YOUR SUPER SECRET SERUM AND PUT YOU IN JAIL! WHY DON’T YOU COME UP AND STOP US!”

There was a shocked pause, then the sound of shouting and thundering feet. Clint wheeled on Coulson and was surprised to find him grinning all over his face.

“There are more subtle ways, but I find it usually pays to keep it simple, don’t you?”

“What in fuck did you just do?” Clint’s jaw hung open. “They’re on their way up to shoot us now!”

Coulson was calm. “All of them?”

“Yes, all of them!”

“And did they leave the case?”

Clint looked down. There was the case, gleaming where it had been dropped in the centre of the floor. The footsteps pounded up the stairs towards the gallery.

“Yes, they left the damn case!”

“Excellent.” Coulson started to pull small metal parts from the pockets of his jacket, “I love it when people are just as stupid as you hope they are. Are your arms as strong as they look?”

Clint bristled a little. “My arms,” he said loftily, “are awesome.”

Coulson’s grin widened. “I’m sure they are. Hold this.” 

Clint found himself holding a black metal tube with a grip pattern at each end. In the centre a silver square was set opposite a big red button. The footsteps were a lot louder now, and accompanied by extremely angry shouting. Suddenly Clint was sweating.

“What is it?”

“Our way down. One hand each end, point the silver bit upwards, push the button when I say and for god’s sake hit the beam. And hold on!”

The thumping feet could only be a few steps away now. Clint looked towards the open door and saw shadows approaching. Shadows with guns.

“And what will you be doing?”

“Holding on to you of course.”

The traffickers burst through the door and Clint saw the glitter of raised barrels. At the same instant Coulson kicked out the fragile wooden railing, swung himself behind Clint and, grabbing him firmly round the waist, dragged them both off the balcony.

They hurtled backwards through the air and Clint didn’t even have time to be truly surprised before Coulson was shouting “Shoot!” in his ear. He fired more on instinct than method and all his hours of practise must have paid off yet again because the silver thing shot off like a rocket and embedded firmly in the beam, trailing a metal cable behind it. “Hold on!” Coulson yelled as the cable began to go taut. Clint’s muscles felt their combined weight and started to scream but there must have been some sort of a brake in the metal tube taking the impact because instead of a violent lurch Clint was able to flex and execute a surprisingly graceful swing that took them under the balcony and out the other side. “Let go!” Coulson yelled again and Clint obeyed automatically. With the force of their momentum they skidded across the floor, past the case which Coulson freed a hand to snatch up and crashed to a halt behind a substantial statue of the Virgin. Almost immediately there was a buzz of gunfire and small chips of stone and tile began to leap into the air.

In the shelter of the statue Clint swung astonished eyes to Coulson, who appeared completely unruffled. He was still twinkling. “That,” he said, “went much better than I expected. Mini-grapple. Lovely bit of kit. Good work Mr Barton. I’m going to guess a performance background? Trapeeze?” Clint nodded dumbly. “Explains the costume. And of course the awesome arms.” He peered around the statue and retreated from a second wave of bullets. “I’ll admit, the second part of the plan is trickier.”

“Trickier than that.” Clint asked flatly. He couldn’t imagine what this crazy Suit, no…Agent would possibly think could be trickier than the insanity that had just happened. “Does it somehow involve harnessing a unicorn to ride? Have you got a mini-tunnelling machine hidden in that jacket too? Or will we be growing a bullet-proof shell like a pair of armoured tortoises?” 

“Armoured tortoises?” Coulson started at him incredulously, Clint stared back unblinking until suddenly the sheer lunacy of the situation crashed over him in a wave and he snorted with hysterical laughter, unable to hold it in. Seconds later Coulson broke too and for a few brief moments they howled until they had tears in their eyes while the bullets pelted the Virgin behind them. Eventually, Coulson drew in a shuddering breath.

“No, Mr Barton..”

“Clint.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s Clint. If I’m going to die riddled with bullets and side by side with some badass lunatic, I’d rather do it using my first name.”

“Clint then. And no, we won’t be needing any shells. Or doing any dying. I have this.” He pulled a thick metal circle out of his pocket. It reminded Clint of the chocolate coins his kindergarden teacher had given out at Christmas. “It’s a CPD, Concussive Pulse Disc. Hit with enough impact it will release a pulse that will knock out anyone within ten metres. But I’d relied a bit on them coming back down here after us. Which they don’t seem inclined to do. So we will have to figure out how to get it up to them instead.”

“Is it sticky? I mean, self-adhesive?” 

“Of course it is, we’re S.H.I.E.L.D., not savages.”

“Then pass it here.”

Pulling an arrow from his quiver Clint and snapped the tip off, then weighed the disc in his hand before sticking it to the end of the shaft. He rolled his shoulders and went to stand but Coulson’s hand stopped him.

“What are you doing? You’ll have to hit the gallery railing to get enough impact to set it off. That’s a crazy shot with your arrow off balance.”

It was Clint’s turn to grin. “Then Agent Coulson, it’s good luck for you that you happen to be trapped with ‘The Amazing Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman’. Ready?”

Under Coulson’s covering fire Clint stood. Sighted his target. Nocked. Raised his bow, drew, calculated the weight difference of the disc, aimed, breathed and released. The arrow flew straight and true as if magnetised. The disc slammed into the thin wooden rail, activated and all four men on the balcony collapsed like stringless puppets.

“Good.” Coulson congratulated Clint, then spoke rapidly into some sort of radio before turning to him again. “Very good indeed. Let’s get outside. The team will do clear up.”

Clint scowled. “You have a team? Then why didn’t you just bring them in the first place? Why did we do all that?”

“I was checking something.”

“What?”

Coulson looked at him appraisingly. “Just a theory.”

>>===>>

Slightly bewildered, Clint had no option but to follow Coulson past the stream of armour clad agents who had appeared from nowhere and did not seem even slightly perturbed to see their boss strolling easily, holding a shiny case of experimental drugs, accompanied by a sweaty and just as shiny archer and leaving a trail of unconscious bodies and chaos in his wake. In fact, they nodded acknowledgement as if it were just another day in the life. Perhaps it was. Whoever this guy was it was clear he was a decent leader as well as a stone-cold badass. Clint found himself starting to like the guy. That laugh had been worth the drop from the balcony on its own alone.

As they reached what would have been the car park- had it not currently been full of some sort of jet, did that make it a jet park? – Coulson dropped and put the case on the floor and put his thumbs to the latches.

“Right then, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“NO!” Clint’s shouted warning came half a second after Coulson had pressed the switches. The case started to emit a tooth-jarring whine. 

Coulson frowned. “That can’t be good.”

“You think? I could have told you the cases are rigged! We have maybe a minute before the fucking thing detonates!”

“How did you disarm the ones you took?”

“I didn’t!” Clint shouted in exasperation, “I’m not a bomb tech! I waited until the case was _open_ before I killed the handlers, it seemed the sensible thing to do, you know?” He cast his eyes around and sighed quickly. “Give it to me.”

Coulson looked up from where he was fiddling with the fastenings on his tac jacket. “What?”

“I said, give to me. Look, we don’t have long, I’m a decent runner and maybe I can get it far enough away so that when it blows your fancy plane here won’t go up too.”

To his astonishment, Coulson smiled, a mildly proud smile that hit Clint in the chest like a fucking victory. “That’s noble Mr Barton. Unexpected and noble. But ultimately unnecessary”. 

While he spoke Coulson efficiently stripped off his jacket, zipped it closed and slid the case inside before doing something Clint couldn’t follow to the top and bottom openings and then tying the arms round and round the middle like some demented parcel. The whine reached ear-splitting volume and Coulson threw himself over Clint barrelling him to the floor,

“Down!”

Buried under the weight of Coulson’s body Clint heard a muffled ‘whump’ and felt just a tiny shockwave before silence. Which was broken by Coulson’s pleased hum.  
“That also went better than I expected. Kevlar re-enforced amongst other things. I’ll have to tell R and D it works pretty well.”

Clint fought his way up, dislodging Coulson and rolling to his feet.

“Okay, now you have to explain who the hell you are. You look like an accountant for fuck’s sake but you’re packing grappling hooks, mini explosions and now a damn bomb-proof jacket? And you have a jet? What?”

Coulson stood, pulled a pair of sunglasses from his suit jacket pocket and put them on. Wait, he’d been wearing a tailored suit jacket under his tac jacket? How fucking extra could you get? He wasn’t even _wrinkled_.

“I told you Mr Barton. I’m an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. And sometimes, we just can’t help ourselves with the cool.”

“That doesn’t explain….”

“I’m sorry Mr Barton,” Coulson cut him off, “You will be fully debriefed soon but I’m afraid I’m a bit busy at the moment. That serum could have provided answers to where this drug is coming from and now we don’t have any, so I have to go question our captives before word gets back to their bosses what happened here. Why don’t you take a seat in the quinjet and someone will be with you soon.”

He turned and strode back in the direction of the chapel.

“But I…”

Coulson whirled. “Of course! You took the first three deliveries. What did you do with them?”

“I burned them. But I’m trying to say…”

“Burned them how?”

“Incinerators. But...”

“How did you manage that?”

“Because hospitals and crematoriums are surprisingly easy to break into! But just…”

“Damn.” Coulson cursed, turning away again. “So it’s down to these guys then. Excuse me.”

Clint practically shook with frustration. “Coulson!” he shouted. “For fuck’s sake. I know where it comes from!”

Coulson paused. “You do?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that I do! I _said_ , this shit killed my brother, I do not want it out on the streets. There were four drops scheduled for this week, I figured I’d cut off the distribution and then head back to cut off the source. I can tell you where that is.”

“Tell me.”

>>===>>

Clint quickly shared everything he’d managed to gather in the hideous weeks after Barney’s death when he scoured every back-alley and pressured every scumbag he could find until he’d heard what he needed to know. Coulson was on the radio in moments, calling a second team out from HQ, wherever that was, and dropping orders left right and centre until he seemed sure the operation was being taken care of. 

“Copy that Sitwell, I will return to base with detainees. Let me know how it goes down. Coulson out.”

He flicked off the radio and turned back to Clint who was hovering awkwardly on the jet’s access ramp, and there was that tight smile again.

“Well Mr Barton, it seems people should listen to you more often shouldn’t they?”

Clint scoffed. “It’s Clint. And yeah, that would be nice.”

“Clint. I won’t make that mistake again. And I’ll be sure to mention it in my recruitment recommendation.”

“Your what?”

“My recruitment recommendation.” Coulson put a friendly hand in the small of Clint’s back and walked him gently towards a seat. “The way I see it, you’re at a loose end now we’ve finished off your vendetta for you and S.H.I.E.L.D. could certainly use someone with your skills. You’d have to be de-briefed of course, and trained, and we’d have to find you something to wear with a few less sequins but I’m pretty sure we could keep the purple. It’s a good life and you’d be doing essential work. I’m pretty sure you’d be a good fit. What do you think?”

Clint was stunned. “I honestly have no idea. Agent…”

“Phil. Please.”

“Phil, is it always like this?”

“No. Sometimes it’s much more interesting. Strap in and get comfortable, it’s a long trip home. Now, we’re wheels up in ten and I need to organise the rest of the team.” He took a step away, then turned to Clint again and the twinkle was back in his eyes. “Clint. You were good today. Very good. And I hope it’s not too presumptuous to say, but, welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.” And then he left, already issuing orders into the radio.

Shaking his head wonderingly Clint watched him leave. From down and out vigilante to possible legitimate government agent in the space of the morning? 

He was pretty sure he’d never been so well-handled in his life. 

And he was shocked to find that for the first time, he didn’t mind at all. Hardly surprising really, he was apparently Phil’s soulmate after all. But that thought felt a bit hollow. If that was true, why hadn’t they matched? Clint stripped off his arm guard and his words were the same as always, grey and unreadable to anyone except himself. The one time he’d met someone he might have been able to take hearing those words from, and nothing. No soulmate for him. 

Before Clint could feel too sorry for himself he looked up to see Phil, radiating competence as he guided the now restrained traffickers into an enclosed section of the jet and allowed himself a small smile. Maybe it didn’t have to matter so much. Maybe there would be something in this S.H.I.E.L.D. business. His smile grew into a grin as he settled back into his seat. He’d wanted a new life and it seemed a new life had come to claim him even without his _find_. Time to see where it took him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crikey - sorry I'm late, real life again!  
> As always, thank you for the comments and support x

“You want me to do _what_ with him?”

Phil leaned back in his chair and remained impassive in the face of the Director’s incredulous question.

“Admit him to the Academy, Operations Division. Train him. Make him an agent. I’m telling you Nick, we will regret it if we don’t.”

Fury frowned sceptically. “We don’t know the first thing about this guy Phil.”

“I do.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on Fury’s desk, formality discarded in his earnestness. As much as he wanted to sound professional, Nick had to listen to this. He had to. “We had time to talk on the quinjet. His history is…shitty, to say the least. Abusive home, he and his brother literally ran away to join the circus. Spent the next years performing for the owners, on the stage and as part of the crime ring they ran on the side, until he decided to get clean. Took them both out of the circus, worked here and there, tried to keep out of trouble until Barney, the brother, built himself up a debt with the group financing this little drug experiment. He couldn’t pay and they offered him the option of becoming a test subject in exchange for wiping off the loan. It killed him Nick. So, Clint went after the company and that’s when we came in.”

Fury grunted, unimpressed. “Sounds like a shit show. And I want this in my organisation why?” 

Phil didn’t answer. He just keep his gaze trained unwaveringly on Fury. Fury spent a few moments shuffling the file Phil had laid on his desk before standing to stare out of the window, Phil’s eyes still boring into him. Eventually, he sighed.

“Alright Cheese. Explain it to me.”

Phil grinned. “He’s good. He managed to beat us to the punch of this op four times, as you know, and he did it without being caught. He tracked those deals and found the drug on his own, with no resources, and no training either. So he’s very good. Resourceful, practical, independent. But loyal too, or why would he stick his neck out for his brother’s memory like that? Yes, he’s got a record, several offences of varying degrees but no civilians ever injured, minimal property damage. So, strong moral compass despite a questionable upbringing. If we take that natural talent alone to the Academy there’s no telling what sort of an Agent we could end up with. But he has other skills too, specific skills that we need. Physically he’s agile, strong, capable. Not sure about unarmed combat but May could fill any gaps fairly quickly. But with a bow…Nick you should have seen the shot. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it. It was literally a million-to-one. If that transfers to a gun, and I’m willing to bet it will, we’ve got ourselves a hell of a sniper. Also, he was very helpful on my op, despite circumstances, cool, calm, followed orders well but asked intelligent questions. Nick, we can trust him, I really think….”

“Took quite a shine to the boy did we?” Fury interrupted, smirking. “Last time I had to hear a list like that you were extolling the virtues of Captain America. He in that league?”

Phil resolutely did not blush.

“He’s hardly a boy, or are you trying to make me feel old? I just think he needs us Nick. And we need him. If we don’t take hold, someone else will and I do not want to be looking at him one day from the wrong end of an arrow.”

Fury nodded. “Fine. You don’t usually steer us wrong Cheese, I’ll take that bet. We’ll debrief him properly and see what we see. If the team agree with your assessment and he’s willing, I think we could find a place for him.” Sitting back down at the desk, he gave Phil a sideways grin. “I take it when and _if_ he graduates you want me to mark you down to be his Supervising Officer?”

Phil shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” Fury raised a questioning eyebrow. “Actually, there’s more feedback from the op.” Phil’s stomach clenched but he had to say what needed saying and put the nail in that idea once and for all. He just didn’t know where to start, it was all too…he decided to fall back on procedure and regulation. Standing, he took up an approximation of the parade rest younger agents used when making formal reports to superiors. “Director, I have to report that during the operation we experienced an Unrequited _find_.”

“Aw shit.” If Fury was surprised at the formality he didn’t show it, instead he slumped in his chair and rested his chin on one hand. “I hate those things. So goddamn awkward. And did you hear about that psycho over in England last month? Couldn’t accept being Unrequited so kidnapped her soulmate and made him tell her his words, repeated them over and over at him, trying to force a _find_. Didn’t work, obviously, and she was _not_ pleased. The police didn’t find the poor guy for weeks, he was in a bad way.” 

Phil held himself very, very still, face carefully blank.

“Oh don’t look at me like that Phil, I know not all Unrequiteds go off the rails and I'm sure none of our agents would crack like that. But, well. It’s just fucking sad isn’t it? Finding a soulmate but not making a match, always being a spare part.” he heaved a huge sigh. “Come on then, who’s the poor fucker?”

Phil remained still. Fury’s eye widened. 

“Oh Phil, man. You?”

He allowed himself a terse nod.

“Shit. Phil, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry. That’s a rough deal. Who did you _find_ for?”

“Barton.”

“The Arrow-guy? Damn, Phil, that’s ..”

“I know,” Phil interrupted. “And you need to know that this isn’t why I recommended him for the Academy. He’s genuinely good, the rest is…irrelevant.” 

“I understand.” Nick stood too, also apparently taking refuge in formality. “Agent Coulson, I have to remind you as Director that your new status as Unrequited does come with restrictions. You will not be involved in the training or mentoring of Barton should he decide to join us, and you will not working together in the field. You should avoid any undue contact as set out under our Soulbond-Harrasment guidelines…”

Phil cut him off, crumpling out of his formal pose to stand normally, looking suddenly as exhausted as he felt.

“Nick, I know, I get it. I helped write the Code of Conduct, remember? No contact which could be seen as putting pressure on him to force a _find_ he can’t control. I know. And you know I won’t. It’s fine.” He forced a smile.

“Don’t give me that face Cheese. I’ve seen that face before, it might work on civvies, but it doesn’t work on me. How are you with this, really?”

“I’m fine too. It’s not like I lost anything I already had is it? I’m fine.”

“I bet you fucking are.” He paused a moment, then brightened. “You don’t think he might _find_ for you later? It could happen.”

Phil shook his head. “Come on Nick. You know as well as I do that it’s rarer than rocking-horse shit for an Unrequited _find_ to match after initial contact happens. And I’m not going to waste my life or his waiting for something that has a zero point zero one percent chance of happening. So I’m Unrequited. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

“Phil…” Fury sounded sceptical

“I’m _fine_. Please Nick.”

“Alright, have it your way. Go and file your reports, I’ll let you know what happens with Barton and the Academy.”

“Thanks.”

He was almost out of the door, stomach churning, when Fury called after him.

“Phil! I almost forgot. The timing is fucked up, but May is having her _bind_ ceremony today. She wants you there.”

“Today?” Phil spun, disbelieving. “I only saw her, when? Yesterday afternoon? And she said they were just talking about it. They’re doing it today?”

“Yep. In about an hour’s time. She’s heading out on op day after tomorrow and apparently Andrew didn’t want to wait. It’s in conference room 12. Phil….” Fury hesitated, “Given the circumstances…I can tell her you were busy?”

“And miss her _bind_? May would never forgive me and you know it. I’ll be there. It’ll be great. I’ll see you there. I’m fine.”

He stepped quickly out of Fury’s office, closing the door behind him and managing the four or five jaunty strides that took him round a corner before slumping to lean heavily against the wall. Screwing up his eyes, Phil repeated his new mantra as if he could make himself believe it.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. _I’m fine_.”

He didn’t acknowledge the palm rubbing across his chest, or the words that were underneath it.

>>===>>

The ceremony was beautiful. Of course it was. Even if she only had a few hours and a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room to work with, May was incapable of doing anything at less than top standard. 

Thus it was that Phil sat in a row of unexpectedly plush green chairs and watched May, radiant and voluntarily in a dress for once, pledge her _bind_ with Andrew under a canopy of lush yellow flowers. The heavens alone only knew where she’d found those at short notice but, as Phil well knew, May’s resourcefulness was legendary. 

The couple at the front exchanged the vows that declared them as willing and able to _bind_ using, Phil was pleased to see, the old traditional words and none of the cutsey vows about sharing the TV remote or feeding the cat that were becoming so popular. They each stated their consent and commitment in a short exchange that was totally in keeping with May’s practical nature and Andrew’s straightforwardness and then came the ritual touch, the physical contact that would seal them as soulbonded. Even though Phil didn’t think there was any chance the _bind_ wouldn’t take, he found himself holding his breath along with the rest of the crowd when Andrew reached for May’s hand. Sure enough, as they met the air in the room trembled with the small concussion that signalled a successful _bind_ and then May kissed Andrew quite thoroughly to the sound of rapturous applause. It was a gorgeous moment.

Phil felt sick.

At the quickly arranged drinks reception afterwards, he glanced around the room. Apart from May and Andrew the room was full of familiar faces. A small group of Agents from Phil and May’s graduating Academy class, Jasper Sitwell, Victoria Hand, John Garrett, all colleagues who had become friends, were currently hogging the canapé table as if they’d never been fed. Fury had of course attended with his Deputy-Director and soulmate Maria Hill, who had matched with the Director the day she’d told him that his policies regarding on-mission expenses were ‘utter-bullshit’ and that he was in danger of running S.H.I.E.L.D. into the ground unless he ‘took his head out of his ass’. Their soulbond was wholly of the platonic variety and Maria had come with her latest girlfriend, but the pair were nevertheless inseparable and formidable as the heads of the Agency. There were even a couple of baby Agents, some of May’s favourites from her recent classes, standing in the corner as if they wished the wall would swallow them up. The rest of the small crowd was staff, assets, colleagues and trainers. Phil was surrounded by pretty much all his favourite people and had never been more alone in his entire life.

Swigging down the last of his lukewarm champagne he headed for the exit as unobtrusively as he could manage. His limbs were leaden and he just needed to get somewhere where nobody could see him before his energy truly ran out.

“Phil?” May’s hand on his elbow stopped him. “You promised you’d dance at my party.” 

He plastered on a smile that he hoped didn’t look as plastic as it felt, and replied as warmly as he could. “May. Congratulations. This happened quickly, or have you been keeping secrets?”

May ducked her head and Phil wondered if she was hiding a blush, “No, it’s just…I have another op coming up and Andrew didn’t want to wait so we thought, why not? When you’re matched, you’re matched, why waste time? We don’t get a lot of opportunities in this job so I guess we just grabbed this one.”

“Can’t fault you.” Phil dropped his voice conspiratorially, feeling like a mummer in a bad medieval play. Surely May would spot how much effort this conversation was taking? “What’s it like?”

This time she definitely did blush, but the grin was all May in its smug sass. “It’s awesome Phil. Already, it feels totally different. Before, when we were just matched, there was the _pull_ , you know? They talk about it, but feeling it? Whew. It was like an actual physical drag that was always there. Like I wanted to be near him all the time. Now, it’s like he’s already here, kinda with me all the time anyway. It’s good, like a blanket, or a tac jacket. Secure.”

“Sounds nice.” He couldn’t keep the slight harsh tinge of bitterness from his tone.

“Phil,” May reached for him, “Are you okay? Fury told me you’d had a rough op but didn’t go into details, do you need to talk about it?”

For a second the whole story balanced on his tongue, as much as he didn’t want to ruin May’s day, the idea of talking to someone was so tempting. However,

“No work talk today!” Andrew interrupted, walking up and swinging May into a bear hug. “Work talk is banned until tomorrow.” He glanced at Phil. “Hey Phil, glad you’re here. Come try the cake!”

Phil took his escape opportunity.

“Glad to be here. Congratulations again guys it was beautiful, but I’m going to head off, I’m done in from today. May, don’t even try to fool me into thinking this was big enough to be your actual party. When you get the real celebration arranged, I promise I will dance. For now, try the cake, enjoy, I’ll see you soon.”

He lunged in, quickly shaking Andrew’s hand and kissing May fleetingly on the cheek before making for the door.

“Phil!” 

May called after him and he tossed the reply quickly over his shoulder as it shut behind him.

“I’m fine!”

>>===>>

Phil was not fine.

He headed quickly for the elevator and down to the parking levels, desperate just to drive and get into his apartment without having to speak to any other human beings and without having to put on any sort of act. After the shock of making his _find_ he’d held it together through the rest of the mission mainly by training, adrenaline and ridiculous posturing, through the de-brief by holding on to protocol and through the wedding by sticking with social convention. But now he was just done. He was shaking with the effort of holding himself together, hands clenched on the wheel and spine so straight it ached. The journey passed in a blur of buildings and aggressive silence once he’d switched off the radio, unable to handle its usual offering of mawkish soulmate love songs. 

Finally, there was his door and he fumbled his code into the pad, gasping shallow breaths and near to hyper-ventilation. Inside he stumbled towards the shower, shedding clothes haphazardly onto the floor as he went, spun the dials and practically fell into the too-hot water. For a long time he stood in eyes-closed silence, letting the day sluice away and down the drain, concentrating on slowing his breathing and regaining some control over himself and his shuddering body. Finally, when his skin was red and close to scalded he managed a perfunctory wash-down and shut off the water, dragged a towel round his waist. It wasn’t until he was in the safety of his bedroom that he allowed himself to stand in front of the mirror, take a deep breath, and look.

There they were, his words, obviously words now with none of the weird duality that came from ‘reading’ them when they were just dots to everyone else. And they were purple. Of course they were. Phil lifted a hand that he tried very hard to pretend was not trembling and ran his fingers along them. Real, solid, and bright fucking purple.

It was the colour that did it. The splash of purple across his chest where there had only ever been grey, where he’d only ever thought to see grey, was vivid, alive, unexpected. And totally untouchable. 

He crumpled onto the edge of the bed put his head in his hands and finally allowed himself to cry. 

He cried for himself. For the boy who’d been so scared of his words, for the youth who’d rebelled against them and for the man who had started to hope that he might be able to believe in them. 

He cried for that hope lost, for the life he wouldn’t get to live. 

For the damned bright blue suit he’d half imagined one day buying to wear at his own _bind_ ceremony and all the other tiny romantic daydreams of domesticity that he’d barely even allowed himself to have and now were just gone, like so much dust. 

He cried for the future, suddenly stretching out empty in front of him. He cried for the bloody unfairness of bloody destiny. 

And he cried for a set of awesome arms, keen eyes, a smile and a man who wouldn’t be his to get to know either.

Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D and protector of the world, cried like a heartbroken child until his breath came in hiccups, his head ached and even the press of tears couldn’t keep his eyes open.

>>===>>

“Wha...urgh…oh…damn!”

Surprised awake by the chime of his email Phil tried to sit up in bed and, finding himself trapped in a mass of blankets, fell onto the floor instead. Cursing he wrestled his way out of the sheet burrito that had somehow formed around him and was vaguely surprised to find himself naked save for the towel still half hanging round his waist. He groaned, feeling very much as if he’d gone several rounds in the sparring ring and had his ass handed to him quite thoroughly. His head hurt, his eyes were sore and he was thirsty as all hell. He glanced at the clock. And for god’s sake it was two in the afternoon! 

He was half-dressed in shirt and tie with and pulling on his socks while also trying to wolf down a granola bar before he remembered the email that had woken him. Mercifully it was from Fury telling him his reports, hurriedly filed before May’s _bind_ ceremony, had been accepted and, given his situation, he’d been granted a day’s leave.

His situation.

The events of the day before rolled back over him in a wave of adrenaline and regret and he closed his eyes as if the darkness could keep it out. 

He breathed.

He was Phil Coulson and yesterday he had made his _find_. He had met his soulmate, whose name was Clint but he had not been Clint’s soulmate, they had not matched. He was Unrequited. Phil laid the facts out for himself like a report, read them, reviewed them and then for a long moment he let himself feel the pain that had sent him reeling last night. Let himself feel the _pull_ towards Clint that was sitting quietly at the back of his mind, not exactly irritating but present, like the gap of a lost tooth. The sense of something missing. Then Phil carefully, carefully, locked it all away. 

He would not die of this. It would not break him.

He was lucky, Phil reminded himself, he had so much good in his life to enjoy and be fulfilled by and he didn’t need a soulbond to do that. He had managed without one, and he would manage again. He wasn’t fine yet. But he would be.

The rest of his unexpected day off passed in a blur of aimless movies (he avoided the TV, too many shows like ‘Re-matched’ and ‘Soul Finder’) trashy novels (crime and adventure. A little too close to work maybe, but with few romantic subplots) and ice-cream (the diet and fitness regime could take a day off too). Despite moving very rarely from the couch, when evening came round he was still exhausted enough to head to bed early. One last check of his email revealed a second one from Fury.

_‘Cheese,_

_Thought you’d want to know that Clint Barton has been de-briefed and offered a place at the Academy, pending psych evaluation. He accepted._

_I hate to do it Phil, but I’m obligated to remind you that once he’s there you can’t contact him or take part in his training in any way. Sorry Phil. It sucks. But it’s the way it is._

_We’ll be sending him out end of the week._

_Nick’_

The reminder did not hurt him. It didn’t.

He fired off a quick message to Fury thanking him for the update. 

Then, before he had chance to think about it too much sent another to Clint himself, congratulating him and wishing him all the best at the Academy. Nick would frown, but it wasn’t against the rules, not quite yet. The mail itself seemed dry, impersonal and he hesitated to send it, but what else was there to say? ‘Sorry I’m not your soulmate and we’re barred from spending any time together by tradition and regulations but I hope you enjoy your training?’ No. He pressed the send icon and closed down his screen. Short and simple was best. Clean and clear-cut, no messy edges. Just an agent wishing a new recruit good luck. 

It wasn’t like he knew Clint anyway, nor was he going to. It was just the way things were. And in the end, someone as resourceful and talented as Clint wouldn’t need him or his best wishes anyway. Phil just knew he was going to be spectacular.

>>===>>


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say it again, I'm so grateful for the response to the last chapter, thank you all! Your words and comments are really interesting and insightful, not to mention inspiring.
> 
> That said, I'm sorry/not sorry for all the angst. Maybe this will make up for it a bit? 
> 
> And apologies once more for the delay in posting, I don't know where the time goes! Thanks for hanging in there.

>>===>>

“For god’s sake Cadet Circus, what is even the point of you being here? Try again. Think you can answer this one?” 

The maths instructor, one Agent Samuels who was on medical leave, judging by the arm bandages, and pissed about it, judging by the attitude, had a voice that grated and squeaked like someone squeezing polystyrene. It made Clint’s skin crawl. He hunkered down in his seat, eyes firmly on the text book in front of him and tried to make sense of the numbers swimming on the page.

“I asked you a question Big Top, or are you deaf as well as dumb? Too many sequins in your ears?” 

A couple of the class tittered at that. Clint didn’t blame them, they were kids, most of them. Smart kids, good kids, but kids all the same, with way too much to learn about life. It was one of the problems with this place, too many kids and nobody to talk to. His twenty-six years felt very, very old here. He kept silent, hands flexing slowly under the desk.

“Or is it the greasepaint clogging up your hearing? Are you even going to try to answer the question, Circus?”

It was the end of a very long week which formed the end of a very long three months at the Academy. A very long three months. 

Clint wasn’t ungrateful. The Academy had its good points. The food was regular, frequent, edible. The beds were soft. The classes were even interesting, if occasionally over his head. Not that he was stupid; his Mom had tried to teach him the basics of reading, maths and writing when his Dad wasn’t around and Trickshot had finished the job because an illiterate thief was just bad at following instructions, but a thieves’ circus wasn’t exactly the place to get a wider education. Clint had made efforts to catch up on his own whenever they stayed in a town with an open library but he was aware there were some alarming gaps in his knowledge. Current affairs he was good at (newspapers had always been easy to steal) and the psychology and espionage tactics came naturally. But some of this shit? Geometry? Algebra? Calculate the volume of a what now? 

And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to learn, but guys like Samuels seemed to think it was the be all and end all. Clint could take one look at any target, feel the wind and place his fucking arrow dead fucking centre and never once calculate the fucking volume of a fucking cone. But nobody seemed to give much of a shit about that. And while most of the instructors knew what they were doing, there were just enough assholes like this one that Clint never quite felt able to relax in classes.

“Circus! Do you have an answer? Or did you leave it in your clown shoes?”

Clint had no idea what he’d done to set this jerk running. Maybe because he was older than everyone else? Bigger? Had two working arms? Did Samuels think he was some sort of threat to his authority? Whatever, it seemed like he wasn’t going to go away. Clint looked up and gave his best glare.

“My name, is _Barton_.”

“Oh!” Samuels was delighted to have gotten a reaction at last, “It lives! Did you have an answer Big Top? Or are you determined to waste everyone’s time?”

“My name is **Barton**.” He brought his hands up onto the desktop and twirled his pencil to avoid making the fist his fingers were itching for.

“Cadet, I don’t give a flying fuck what your name is. What I want is the answer to this problem. And if you don’t have it, you’ll be getting extra out-of-class work. Again. To nobody’s surprise. So?”

“I don’t quite…”

“Oh, what a shock. Cadet Circus doesn’t have the answer, yet again. Can anyone help him out?” A curly-haired girl at the front of the class raised her hand nervously and rattled off the answer an approving nod. “See Circus? If you actually had half a brain in your head instead of cotton-candy and elephant shit you’d be able to grasp these basic concepts like Cadet Frizz-Ease over here.” Turning on the girl he added, “Someone put her stay at home Friday nights to good use, didn’t she?” The cadet gasped and paled but didn’t speak. 

Clint had had enough. He stood and drew himself up to his full height.

“Sir, with all due respect, and to be fair I think you’ll find the respect due to you is absolutely fucking none, if you don’t stop insulting me and my fellow cadets then you’ll find out exactly what I spent my Friday nights learning, and you won’t like it one little bit. Just teach us the fucking syllabus and cut the crap.” 

Samuels turned an alarming shade of red. “How dare you?” he spluttered, “Do you think you’re special? It is because you were brought in by Coulson, is that it? Well, Fury’s ass kisser hasn’t looked at you twice since you got here so don’t think he’s going to protect yo…”

The pencil took him in the throat before he finished, hitting him firmly on the Adam’s apple and neatly stopping the tirade.

“I don’t need protecting. That was knife throwing. This….” Clint grabbed Samuels and hefted him upwards until his feet left the floor, “this was from the strongmen, and…” he said, dropping him neatly into the large paper bin at the front of the room, “that I got from the clowns.” He leaned down close to the struggling, furious form. “They were very interesting Friday nights.”

“Barton,” Samuels managed to choke out “Barton, you…” 

“I know, Disciplinary.” Grabbing his bag he left the astonished class behind in his wake. “Don’t worry, I know the way.”

>>===>>

Waiting outside the Disciplinary Office got boring after three hours. Eventually, when the door opened it revealed a woman Clint hadn’t seen before. Slim, dark haired and pretty he would seriously have considered hitting on her if she hadn’t radiated an aura that pretty much spelled out ‘don’t fuck with me’ in neon letters. He wondered how much trouble he was in.

“Sit down.” She said, indicating the nearest chair, “I’m Deputy Director Maria Hill.”

Okay, so a lot of trouble.

“And you, Clint Barton are a pain in my ass.”

Mentally, Clint reviewed his options. He was obviously getting canned, so what was next? He had a few contacts outside who might be willing to take him on, but getting to them could be awkward. Would S.H.I.E.L.D. even give him back his bow? And then of course there was the matter of cash…

“sixteen disciplinaries alone for using inappropriate language and another four for cutting classes…Barton, are you listening?”

Whoops. Clint pulled his attention back to Hill's speech. Laid out all in a row it did sound bad.

“In my defence…”

“I don’t give a crap about your defence. I’ve interviewed your class, and Agent Samuels and in my opinion he is an asshole. And he’s fired, pending a psych review, we don’t tolerate harassment in S.H.I.E.L.D. So that’s over. We have other things to discuss.” The Deputy Director sighed and came to sit opposite Clint. The look she gave him was searching. “Barton, do you like it here? In S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Clint squirmed a little under her focus and tried to be diplomatic for once. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is fine. I’ve done some reading. The work you do, it’s big. Important. Necessary. I’d like to be a part of work like that.”

“Hmmm.” Hill narrowed her eyes. “And at the Academy?”

“Um…”

“Honest answer.”

“No.” Clint admitted with a resigned sigh, “It sucks. It’s too big and too still and too full of kids. The classes are insane, the ones I’m no good at they just pick at me and the ones I can do, like combat, they won’t let me show them. It’s all ‘later Barton, later, that comes later’ or ‘Maybe you can fight but we don’t fight like that’ or ‘you have to learn it our way’.” His voice rose as all the frustrations of the past months started to surface at once. “I did my basic training like everyone else and scored top in marksmanship but they won’t let me shoot anything! Nobody’s even let me near a bow in weeks and that’s what you hired me for! I can’t learn shit here and if I hear one more circus joke I will not be resp….” Hill’s raised hand cut him off.

“Clearly, we made a mistake.”

Clint’s heart sank. This was it then, the old heave-ho, fuck off and never darken our door again. Awesome.

“Yeah, I guess so. I’ll pack my shit and get out of your hair.” He went to stand and then paused. “Could you do me a favour though? That guy who brought me in, Phil? Could you tell him I’m sorry? That I know he’d have had to stick his neck out for me and I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Hill frowned. “I think you misheard me Barton. When I said we made a mistake, I meant bringing you here, not recruiting you. Clearly the Academy is not the place for a man of your age and experience. You’re coming back to the Triskelion with me. Now. Today. You’ll receive on-the-job training from active agents, taking into account your skills. You’ll have tutors, taking into account your deficits. And you’ll be accorded rank and board and pay due to your new role. Is that clear?”

“I’m going to be in the field? Not another classroom?”

“In the field yes. I take it that’s acceptable?”

It was more than Clint had dared hope for. “Absolutely!”

“Great. Pack. We are wheels up in one hour exactly. Quinjet bay. Be there, Agent Barton.”

Clint grinned. “Agent?”

Hill didn’t quite roll her eyes, but it was pretty close. “Yes, Agent. You’re in the field, you’re an Agent. Probationary.”

“I’ll take it. Thank you ma’am.”

“Don’t thank me Barton, this wasn’t my idea.” Her voice softened, just the tiniest amount. “You have friends in high places Barton. Don’t let them down.”

>>===>>

Friends in high places. 

Clint considered Hill’s phrase all the way through his packing, the Quinjet flight and the orientation for his new quarters, running it round and round in his head. Friends in high places. Phil. It had to be Phil. Who else ‘high’ even knew Clint existed, let alone gave a shit about his progress? Phil had sent him that email, wishing him luck and while Clint was not about to admit how many times he’d read it through, it did suggest that he could be keeping an eye on him. That and some of the instructor’s snide remarks. It had to be Phil. There was literally no-one else. And Phil had recommended his change in status? 

The thought filled him with a sort of warm glow that followed him around his first few weeks in the Triskelion. Because it had been a long time since anyone had watched him with anything other than a view to what they could get from him. And because this was better. Much better. His schedule was less regular now, his instructors more varied but the change in formality suited him. He like learning from people who had actually done the job they were asking of him and done it recently. He liked how much easier it was to fill in the gaps in his knowledge when there were people who would admit he had knowledge in the first place. He liked his new quarters, his free access to the shooting range and the new weapons they were asking him to try out, the stealth tests and the informal sparring that made up his combat training. He liked kicking ass on all of them. He liked knowing that soon he’d be sent out on missions of his own to do some good in the world.

Sure, there were still areas for improvement, a good number of Agents saw him as a country-bred, smart-mouthed, upstart carnie hick and at times he was still fighting for his place. But then he kinda liked that too.

So yeah. Much better.

The only real problem with S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint mused as he slid his way through the thin metal tunnel, apart from the shocking absence of security in the ventilation system, was its disappointing lack of Phil Coulson. Clint hadn’t seen Phil once in the weeks he’d been back, and he wanted to, wanted to show him how he was doing. Shake his hand, say ‘hey, thanks for taking a chance on me.’ Share another laugh like the one they’d had behind the Virgin Mary. Maybe take another look at those eyes. 

But, despite being everywhere; from the shit-ton of daily memos and notices all signed P. Coulson, to the watercooler stories and rumours, which ranged from the frighteningly badass (Coulson once killed three intruders with nothing but his security badge and a rubber band) to the frankly insane (Coulson was a robot who never slept and just re-charged in his office), to the old op reports that were Clint’s required bedtime reading, Phil was nowhere to be found. Ever. 

S.H.I.E.L.D. was big, but not that big and Clint had gotten the distinct feeling he was being avoided. It made him itchy. So he’d done himself a little background reading, figured out the issue and decided to make his own decisions like always. He didn’t want to mess up his new gig, but, well…rules were meant to be bent, yes?

>>===>>

It was that sort of thinking which led him to this air vent, this grate and eventually, with several tiny screws undone and the grate set aside, Phil’s office below.

Gracefully, and perhaps only a tiny bit showy-offily, Clint lowered himself one-handed through the vent and dropped to the floor. He turned to the desk, grinning and came eye to eye with the shiny barrel of a handgun.

“Fuck! Phil! Put that down, it’s just me, Clint!” He opened his free hand and waved it urgently, “Just me, unarmed and everything. Not even any exploding suitcases or knockout discs. Just me.”

“Clint?” Phil exclaimed, quickly lowering the gun and replacing it on the desk, “What in god’s name are you doing here? I almost shot you!”

Clint grinned. “Nah, I’ve seen your reflexes in action, thought it was a good bet that I’d survive. And I came to bring you this. I brought you this.” Suddenly unaccountably nervous he thrust out his hand holding the sturdy purple travel mug he’d carried through the airshafts. Phil took it with a small frown.

“You brought me a mug?”

“Technically,” Clint replied, “technically, I actually brought you the coffee inside it. It’s a little shaken up maybe but it’s from the good place off-site not the commissary, so it should still be okay.” He could feel his cheeks heating up and, damn, was he actually going to blush? “But you can keep the mug if you want it. I actually get paid now, regularly and everything. So it’s all good.”

“You bought me a coffee,” Phil seemed to be frozen in some sort of feedback loop, “and a mug.”

“Yeah.” Clint stepped a little closer. “Just to say thanks. For, you know, talking S.H.I.E.L.D. into taking me into the Academy. And then for talking them into letting me out of it. I’m pretty sure that was you. And I thought that deserved a thank you. And a coffee. So, anyway, thank you Phil. There’s your coffee.”

Phil’s face did something very complicated. He retreated behind his desk. Eventually,

“Clint,” he said, firmly, “You can’t be here. There are rules…our situation is…”

Clint cut him off. “Our situation is a crock. Look, I figured out you were avoiding me with your mad ninja skills and it bothered me, so I looked up the Soulmate Code of Conduct in the handbook…”

“You read the Code of Conduct?” Phil looked sceptical.

“Yes, I read it! It’s pretty tough yeah? And I get it. You’re not supposed to contact me because we didn’t _match_ and it’s like, putting me in an awkward position or something. Or you in a dangerous position, I forget which.”

Phil’s brow creased again and Clint floundered to make that line smooth out.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Phil, I don’t care that you’re Unrequited. This isn’t some Grimm’s fairytale, I’m not a poor Prince in a tower and I’m pretty sure you’re not the Unrequited evil wizard keeping me from my true _find_. I doubt you’re the bond-forcing type and even if you were, I’m notoriously hard to tie up so the torture part would just be awkward for us both.” Phil’s frown became even more confused and Clint rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I’m making a fuck up of this aren’t I? Look, I just mean, I’m not out to take advantage of this status, to, I don’t know, exploit you or ask for favours or anything. And with this, you didn’t even break any rules because _I_ contacted _you_ , aren’t loopholes awesome? Besides, I’m not a kid, I’m a grown-ass man, I don’t need looking after and I’ll choose who I want to have coffee with. I just…you seemed like a good guy and I figured I owed you a drink. I even made sure nobody would see me deliver it. I was discrete!”

Phil shot him a wry look. “Coming through my ceiling was discrete?”

“You want to see me try indiscrete?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and finally, finally wrung something other than a worried expression out of Phil. His chuckle tasted a lot like triumph.

“No, no, I do not.” Phil leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I should drink this while it’s hot. Sit. Tell me. I’m sorry about The Academy, Hill filled me in on details. I worked with Samuels a few times, he’s…”

Clint sat eagerly. “An asshole?”

“I was going to go with ‘difficult’, but your word works too. And now? You’re doing okay here?”

“I’m doing pretty okay, it’s all good. But look, I had some firearms training with Sitwell, has he always made that weird little noise when his gun goes off?”

Phil laughed this time. “No, not always, but I can tell you when it started…”

The next ten minutes where Phil drank his coffee and they traded stories were…weird. It had been so long since anyone had had ten minutes to talk to him at all, him and not ‘Agent Barton’, let alone seemed to have any interest in what he had to say. Or what he might be thinking, never mind feeling. But Phil smiled in the right places and chuckled this tiny little chuckle that sounded like _winning_ and he asked questions. Actually asked Clint questions, and then he listened to the answers! So it was gold to Clint. Pure gold. It was a little sliver of easy, gentle time where nobody wanted anything from him and he could just…be. 

And of course enjoy the company of a guy who turned out to be more than just the stone-cold badass he’d imagined. A lot more.

Clint had only really come to fulfil an obligation, to be a decent guy and give thanks where thanks were due. And even if Phil’s eyes were even more intriguing than he’d had remembered and even if that suit vibe he was working was so hot it was practically able to cause droughts, it really was just meant to be drop off a coffee and exit with a sense of being a good person. But it looked like he might be leaving with something much more important, an actual human connection. A friend maybe. 

It ended way too quickly.

Eventually, Phil finished the mug, draining the last dregs of foam and getting a tiny milky moustache on his top lip that Clint had to suppress the urge to wipe away for him. When Phil offered the mug back Clint shook his head.

“Nah, you keep it.” Making his way back to the open vent he bounced a little on his feet preparing for the spring back up. “I’d best head back to the gym, I’m meant to be seeing an Agent May for some sparring. We’ve not met yet but I’ve heard rumours. She sounds fun.” He paused. “It was good to see you Phil.”

“It was good to see you too Clint.” Phil sounded serious again. “And I’m glad you came. But there are rules, and we have them for a reason, we can’t set precedents. So it’ll have to be just this once.”

“Sure,” Clint agreed easily, hauling himself back up into the vent. “Just this once.” Because, who cared? Fuck regulations, as if the universe sent you the potential to make a friend like Phil and you just saw him once. Sure…

He managed to get the grate back into place quick enough that Phil couldn’t see his smile. Or his crossed fingers.

>>===>>


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say, your reactions to the last chapter totally made my week :) Apologies this one has taken so long, for some reason they just seem to be getting longer and longer! Some fun in this one I hope, these boys really do get some ideas, I have no idea where half of this came from, it was all them, I swear.
> 
> Enjoy, please do let me know your thoughts! x

>>===>>

Phil waited until the little scratching sound of Clint re-screwing in the vent grate had finished and the muffled slither of his exit had faded before he let his head fall into his hands. Clint had just been in his office. His soulmate had just been in his office. With coffee. And a lurid purple mug. And it had been…okay. Because _of course_ , he’d had been avoiding Clint. Of course he had. Partly because there were regulations and he wasn’t the kind of Agent that ignored those, especially when he’d written them himself and _knew_ that they were necessary. But he had to admit it was also partly because he just couldn’t imagine how he’d manage to face Clint without it becoming ridiculously awkward. 

If he and Clint never crossed paths then he’d never have to explain to anyone why they didn’t work together and declare his new status as Unrequited to all and sundry. S.H.I.E.L.D. was a progressive place, but everyone felt sorry for those left on the soulmate shelf and Phil did not need that. And if they never saw each other face to face, he’d never have to see Clint try and front-out being okay with Phil’s weird relationship non-status, never see the look of pity in Clint’s eyes which was bound to be there. So, despite the pull Phil felt, that gentle nagging insistence that he should be with his soulmate, he’d made the grown-up choice and worked his schedule, changed his gym of choice, shifted his lunch habits to ensure he and Clint wouldn’t have to interact. It had been a carefully calculated self-preserving move.

He just obviously hadn’t reckoned on Clint.

Because apparently social convention meant as little to Clint as deliberately ominous regulations and Phil had almost had a heart attack when he’d realised that he wasn’t about to be assassinated in his office but instead had been brought…coffee. By his soulmate. They’d talked. It had been…okay.

Oh, he had to stop lying to himself. 

It had been good. The coffee had been delicious. Clint had been friendly, easy, funny, ridiculously good looking, obviously blooming at S.H.I.E.L.D. and it had been better than good. It had been awesome. It had been so, so close to everything Phil wanted.

And now he knew exactly what he was missing. What he almost could have had.

Phil blew out a long breath. Assassination might have been easier. 

Resolutely he picked up the travel mug and did not let his fingers tighten around the residual warmth before opening the bottom drawer of his desk, placing the mug carefully inside and shutting it away. There. Out of sight, out of mind. He raised his pen and tried very hard to remember which form he’d been correcting before Clint had arrived. Thank god it would be only that once.

>>===>>

The second ‘once’ started just like the first, tiny noises of metal on metal and a faint shuffling above, all things Phil might not have noticed if it hadn’t been for the tiny flare in the _pull_. As it was, this time he managed not to draw a firearm on his visitor. Instead he stayed sitting at his desk, feigning a nonchalance that he hoped would hide the sudden race of his heart.

“Clint.” He drawled as the man in question dropped through the vent, “Still being discrete I see.”

Clint grinned. “Thought it was best. Don’t want you getting transferred to The Fridge or something.”

“It wouldn’t be me getting transferred. And did you forget how to count?” He was trying for his best ‘Agent in Charge’ voice, but the way Clint smiled demanded an answer and the corners of his mouth twitched. “This feels dangerously like twice to me.”

The smile turned sheepish. “Ah, I know. But I wanted to ask, erm, a favour. If you could. If that’s okay. I mean, I know you’re busy and everything but, well…”

Damn. He hadn’t expected Clint to be the sort to come asking for favours. What could he want? Advancement? Inside information? Some ‘better’ mission assignment? Phil wondered what he’d decide to ask for and silently cursed himself for being stupid, avoiding this situation was why he’d written the Unrequited section of the Soulmate Code for after all. Well, Clint would find that he wasn’t a pushover, _pull_ or no _pull_ , he’d get no advantage he hadn’t earned. Phil made his voice even blander.

“Yes?”

Clint shrugged and the tiniest blush tinted his cheeks. It was unfairly adorable and far too distracting.

“It’s about my new uniform, I just, um, need some advice.”

Well, that wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. It sounded like…nothing? Phil couldn’t help it. The stumbling was too endearing and the _pull_ too insistent. Fine. He’d sort whatever the issue was and send Clint on his way, no mess, no fuss and nobody the wiser. He reverted to his normal voice. Formal, but normal. “Relax Clint. What can I do for you?”

“It’s R&D. They’re sorting my new uniform because I’m down to follow some senior agents into the field soon and the guy designing it just won’t listen to me. He keeps insisting on sleeves, Phil, sleeves. Apparently they’re regulation or something. But I can’t shoot straight in full sleeves, they drive me nuts. So I wondered, any ideas?”

Clint looked stricken, as if excess fabric was the stuff of his nightmares and Phil felt himself smiling again, much as he tried to hold it down. This was the major favour his soulmate came tracking down? He thought for a few moments. He certainly wasn’t about to pull rank on R&D for Clint when he wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have some tricks up his own sleeves.

“Well, we’re not exactly drowning in archers, so you can’t blame them for being overly strict with the regs. But there are ways round procedure. So, this is what you do. It can’t come from me, but, it’s Skarsgard designing the suit, yes?” Clint nodded. “Then it’s easy. You just need to sweeten him up a bit, get him talking and then input your ideas when he’s feeling receptive.” He paused to watch Clint’s face. “How much do you know about goats?”

“Goats?”

“Goats.” Phil confirmed, “He’s obsessed with goats. So, what I’d do is find one of those ridiculous goat videos on YouTube, you know, the ones where they scream like people? Show it to him at your next fitting and I guarantee, he’ll be putty in your hands. You’ll practically be able to design the whole suit yourself while he laughs himself stupid.”

Clint frowned. “Look Coulson, I know I’m the new guy, but I can tell when someone is shitting me. That’s ridiculous. Nobody is that into goats.”

“Skarsgard is. And I am not. Shitting you. I’ll owe you a coffee if it doesn’t work.” Phil offered, eyebrow raised, trying not to get lost in the joy of being able to offer his soulmate something, even just this one small thing. “Trust me.”

A shadow passed fleetingly over Clint’s eyes and then he was grinning again. “Okay, but it’d better be a big coffee, from the good place. With whipped cream.” He went back to the vent, hoisted himself back up into the tube, then peered out again “Lots of whipped cream.”

“On coffee?”

“If I’m risking being known as ‘that goat guy’ then hell yes, on coffee. And I want sprinkles too.”

“You won’t get them,” Phil replied, full of confidence, “Not from me anyway. I guarantee it.”

“We’ll see.” Clint’s voice echoed as he wriggled his way off. “We will see.”

Phil sat for a few more moments before he caught himself staring at the vent with a soft smile and changed it quickly to an angry scowl. What was he doing? He did not behave like this, bending rules and regs and hankering after something that he was never going to get! Phil groaned and once again found himself with his head in his hands a position he had a feeling could become very familiar with Clint around. Well, that wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen, for the sake of his sanity and his career. He was resolved.

>>===>>

 

When the huge steaming cup that appeared on his desk two days later, Phil laughed, even though it was topped with a veritable mountain of whipped cream that had melted down the side and across his paperwork. He drank it greedily, the bitter and the sweet, but didn’t contact Clint. His resolve to keep Clint at a distance was un-dented. It was completely impenetrable. Iron.

He even let himself relax a little as he moved around the Triskelion, didn’t check Clint’s schedule every time he wanted to leave the office. He’d seen him twice now and they were fine, nothing was awkward and he had his iron resolve. Bumping into Clint would not be a disaster. And it wasn’t. He saw Clint here and there, corridors, gym, canteen, and, though they didn’t exchange more than the polite nods and ‘good mornings’ of their supposed slight acquaintance, it was fine.

Until the day the elevator door opened and Phil walked straight into Clint, resplendent in new tac suit and huge grin.

“Phil!” he called, holding out his arms and executing a slow twirl “I was just coming to show you. What do you think?”

What did he think? Phil had no idea. He was fairly certain that his brain had shut down during that twirl which had showcased so perfectly the lines of Clint’s body now wrapped tightly in the black tac material. Clint was…was…beautiful. All curves and strength, a dichotomy of lean muscle and soft golden skin and it was all Phil could do not to lean in and palm the round of his shoulder; the line where vest met flesh seemed almost to be begging for his hand, the shape somehow making Clint seem less vulnerable even though it was sleevele…

“Sleeveless!” Phil exclaimed, grasping at his one coherent thought and shaking himself mentally, “I mean, it has no sleeves.”

Clint shot him a puzzled look. “Yup, no sleeves, well spotted. Your plan worked a treat. I played the video and he was too busy laugh-snorting to notice the changes I made to his design. I even sneaked in a little purple, see?” He touched a deep purple V set into the vest’s chest-piece, Phil’s eyes followed the fingers and damn it, now he was looking at Clint’s chest too and it was broad and…whoops, Clint was still talking, “I kinda had to, I mean, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s great and all, but I wanted to still be a bit Hawkeye and… jeez, Phil, what’s with the face? You don’t think it works?”

Clint looked half offended and half worried and Phil couldn’t stand it. “No!” he sputtered, “it works, it definitely works. I’ve just got…files and a meeting to get to so I’d better…” he moved into the elevator, which was mercifully still present. “It works though. It’s good.”

Clint’s grin was back. “Thanks. Hey,” he called as the door began to close, “if you think this is good, you should see me move in it!”

Groaning, Phil rested his head on the panel and accidentally pressed half a dozen buttons. He really, really didn’t think he should.

(That theory was absolutely not confirmed that afternoon when he absolutely didn’t tap into the camera feed from the sparring ring and range and absolutely didn’t spend a good half hour with his mouth hanging open watching Clint test the limits of the suit as he rolled, flipped and tumbled across the padded floor with a ridiculous amount of grace. And he absolutely didn’t have to close his eyes and hold his breath for a moment when, apparently happy with the suit’s flexibility, Clint got out his bow and began to add drawing practise into the routine. There was nothing about the play of skin and suit and muscle and leather that made his mouth go dry. Absolutely not. Phil didn’t do that sort of thing. Really.)

>>===>>

The third ‘once’ was the ‘once’ when Phil stopped pretending it would be ‘once’. Ever. When Clint dropped down through the vent again, fresh back from his first time out shadowing on a live op, clutching a handful of paperwork and needing help because ‘shit, Phil, these mission report forms are complicated and I know it’s a big ask but I’m trying to make a good impression here’, he silently acknowledged that apparently none of his legendary willpower worked when it came to Clint and just picked up his pen. 

“Come on then. What’s the issue?”

Clint wiped a weary hand down his face and dropped the papers onto Phil’s desk. “I don’t know man, it’s just, how many numbers and acronyms are really necessary? Do I need a 36-AR5 or a 37-AR5?”

“Did you fire?”

“Yes?”

“Then it’s a 37. AR stands for Ammunition Report, the 37 is for shots fired and 36 for no shots fired. Don’t ask me why those numbers.” He took in Clint’s frown of concentration. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it. There are a lot of forms. I know because I have to file most of them.”

“Sounds fun.” There was a smile now in the tone, tiny, but there.

“It’s really not. Right, let’s get this done. Did anything break? Because if it did we need a DR2.5…”

“Phil?” Clint interrupted.

Phil hummed round the pen he was gently chewing on. “Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Phil smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. Was this what it felt like to have someone not just to work with, but to take care of? “It’s not a problem.”

It really wasn’t. 

They finished the paperwork in about an hour and Clint raced to file it. The second time it took about forty minutes and Clint lingered for a chat. The third, he had it done in half an hour and the chat was longer. The same happened the fourth and fifth times and by the time Phil had replaced the very over-worked screws to his ceiling vent with four tiny electric magnets coded to Clint’s fingerprint they’d given up any pretence that Clint needed any more help at all. It became just what they did. Their routine. Never regular, because nothing about working for S.H.I.E.L.D. was regular, but routine. Clint would finish an exercise or, more often now, an op and, if Phil was on the base, head for his office and the space on the small couch in the corner that had become his spot and complete the paperwork while Phil managed his own corner of the chaos. Occasionally Clint would hover at Phil’s shoulder and offer his input on whatever Phil was working on. Phil might have been surprised the first time Clint had looked at a list of purchases made by the latest target and joined some dots Phil hadn’t even spotted yet, but he soon knew to value his, often less than orthodox, analysis and it was good to have someone to mull files over with.

But the best bit came once the work was set aside and they’d talk. About the op, or S.H.I.E.L.D, Clint’s latest try-out handler and how, yet again, they seemed to rub each other up the wrong way, or TV or whatever was in the news, it didn’t matter. It was just, easy. An easy back and forth of banter,

(“Phil, tell me honestly, how did you take out those guys with a rubber band and your ID?”

“Are they still telling that story? That’s a rumour to frighten baby agents.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Is it true?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you. 

“That means it’s true.”

“Clint, I have a rubber band right here…”

“Shutting up!”)

and teasing,

(“Another suit? Do you live in the suits? Do you sleep in the suit? I bet you bath in the suit.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Besides, you can talk Showman, don’t think I didn’t notice the extra purple on your latest redesign. Did it hurt to leave off the sequins?”

“Didn’t have to leave them off, you’ve never seen my underwear…”

“And I think we’ll leave that one there thank you.”)

and plain conversation,

(“You never saw Dog Cops? What have you been doing with your life Phillip?”)

that was just addictive.

Because it was so close, so damn close to perfect. Clint wasn’t just attractive (and oh, by all that was holy was he attractive) but also interesting, funny, surprising, dedicated and so easy to spend time with. Phil was amazed by him every time. He’d spent so long assuming that his soulmate would be a danger, a bad person or just something _wrong_ that Clint was like a gift from the universe. Albeit one that he wasn’t allowed to unwrap because his name wasn’t on the tag.

Unrequiteds should not interfere with their soulmate’s lives. It was a basic code of society, one of those things everyone just understood. It was written about in scary children’s stories where Unrequited trolls selfishly stole away fairies to keep them from their true _find_ , it was the subject of endless maudlin, pining love songs about jealousy and loneliness and the motive for murder in a thousand tragic plays from Shakespeare to Duffy. An Unrequited, villain or clown, was always meant to keep away. And of course it was enforced by the S.H.I.E.L.D regs he’d written himself. Because it never, ever worked out. A _find_ could not be influenced or forced, hearttongue could not be faked. It never, ever ended well for the Unrequited or their soulmate. It was just a mess.

And while Phil knew, he _knew_ , that he shouldn’t be allowing this, treading so close to being sent to The Fridge (and it would be a close call as to whether he was sent as staff or resident if this carried on), he by now could no more have turned Clint away than he could have stopped his soulflare from shining or his heart from pumping. But it would be okay, it would, he would make sure of it. He wasn’t some pathetic Unrequited constantly pining after matching with his soulmate, he could play the hand he’d been dealt and he wouldn’t expect more than he’d been allowed. Clint was his soulmate, yes, but Phil wouldn’t push for something Clint couldn’t give. Just to know him was enough. They could be what they were becoming, good friends, even if it was strictly in secret, and he would swallow down anything else his soul demanded and make it okay. He had to. Because while some might suspect Agent Coulson of being a robot, Phil was just a man. A happier and less lonely man now Clint was in his life. And god, he wanted to keep that. 

It was so damn close to perfect.

>>===>>

“Phil!” Clint’s voice came rattling through the vent before Phil could even see him. “Phil! Phil, you’ll never guess!” The grate whipped away and Clint half-fell through into the office twisting at the last moment to land triumphantly on his feet. He brandished a piece of paper with an official S.H.I.E.L.D. letter head, waving it in Phil’s face. “They’ve accepted me! I’m going to the Bird House!”

Phil took the paper, exaggerating his surprise for Clint’s benefit, “No!”

“Yes!” Clint collapsed happily onto the couch, his entire body a picture of thrilled satisfaction. “Pilot training! I’m gonna fly a quinjet!”

“That’s fantastic!” Phil said, coming round the desk to perch on the corner nearest Clint. “And you said they’d never take you. What did you say when we filled in the forms? ‘Not with my brain?’” He let himself beam. “I told you your brain was good enough, didn’t I?”

“Yeah I guess you did.” Suddenly Clint squinted at him, suspiciously, “Hey, you didn’t go pulling any strings for me did you? Because I wouldn’t want...”

Phil shook his head. “Relax, Pinocchio, you’re a real boy. No strings. You did this all yourself.” 

“All myself….” For a moment Phil though Clint might be about to melt into the couch cushions in a wave of pride and surprise and righteous smugness. He thoroughly deserved it and Phil was very tempted to join him, he was feeling a little overwhelmed with pride himself.

“Do you have time to celebrate? I can fetch the good coffee. I’ll even get sprinkles.”

“Time!” Phil startled back as Clint jumped to his feet. “Time! Phil, sorry, I can’t I have to pack, they want me there tomorrow, the ride is wheels up in like three hours. I just had to come tell you!” The light dimmed in his face a little. “But coffee when I get back, yeah?”

“Sure, coffee when you get back.” In four months. “Coffee when you get back sounds great.” Standing, he stuck out his hand for Clint to shake. “Keep in touch? Let me know how you like it?”

“Yeah, of course!” Clint took Phil’s hand and used it to pull him into a swift, warm bear hug. “Thanks for everything Phil, I mean it.”

Phil attempted to remember how to breathe and speak like a normal human. “Not a problem. Never a problem. Take care. No exploding things. Unless you’re told to of course.” Clint was looking right at him, all bright eyes and smile. He managed one long drag of air. “I’ll miss…” 

he did not, could not, say ‘you’, 

“this. I’ll miss this.”

“Me too.” Clint replied, maybe a little wistfully, but it lasted only one second before he was all excitement again, grinning and pulling himself back up into the vent. “But I get to fly a quinjet! How cool is that?”

“Very cool indeed!” Phil couldn’t help agreeing with Clint’s infectious energy. The grate slid back into place with the tell-tale beep of the magnets engaging. “Knock ‘em dead Hawkeye!”

“You know it!” Clint’s voice was already disappearing into the distance. “Look after yourself Phil! Save the world a few times!” And then he was gone.

Phil stood still and let himself have a few seconds to steady the whirlwind inside his chest, then went back to his desk, his chair and his paperwork.

It was suddenly very quiet.

>>===>>


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, hang on to your hats. This is the longest chapter yet and I thought about splitting it but if Phil doesn't get to take a break, why should we? Some stuff here you maybe are/aren't expecting and I'd love to know how it hits you if you have thoughts... 
> 
> As always a million thank yous and hugs and stuff to everyone for reading commenting and pressing the kudos button, it means the world, honestly.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy.

>>===>>

 **8th June**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

 

Ha! Yes, you like ‘em? I guessed we shouldn’t use our actual work emails so there you go. Glad you got the note with the account details, wasn’t sure if you even check the vents. 

Anyway.

I’m here and alive and there are So. Many. Jets.

I’m drooling. Cannot wait to get up in one! Apparently we have test flights and turbulence tests next week.

Later! 

C

 **12th June**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Phil, I was so sick. The trapeze did not prepare me for this. 

It was awesome!

C

 **27th June**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

You’ve been here right? There is no excuse for there being so many fucking forms and so much paperwork unless you were here to invent it. You’d have some sort of papergasm. It has to be you.

I need my spot on the couch for this.

C

 **2nd July**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Nah, I’m good. There are some other agents taking the same course as me and we’re digging each other out of the paperwork mountain. You might know some of them, Mack, Evans, Morse? I think they had classes with you. They’re cool. So I’m good.

Thanks tho!

C

(Though, what is ERR-263 for again?)

 

 **25th July**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Solo flight! Solo fucking flight! I took a multi-million dollar top of the range quinjet up into the air on my own and I did not crash it! Okay, not much. But the engineers say that will hammer right out. How awesome am I now??

Bobbi and Mack went up too so we’re heading to the mess to celebrate. Raise a coffee for me next time you go to the good place and pray for mercy on my liver!

C

 **26th July**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Urgh. You did not pray hard enough.

Bobbi says I danced. Possibly on tables. Does that sound like me?

C

 **1st August**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Hey. Got my tactical assignment results back today. Scored top 5%. Not bad for an ex-carnie hick eh?

Thanks Phil. Really. Thanks.

C

 **18th August**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Arms training! It’s not a bow but a quinjet has some particularly awesome firepower, impressive. BTW, you hear a story that some rookie pilot wrote his initials into the runway with the machine guns just to prove he could, it wasn’t me. 

Okay, it was me. I got grounded for a week to repair it and now I stink of bitumin. I won’t say you didn’t warn me!

So, how’s life at the Trisk? 

C

 **21st August**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Doom-bots? Really? Like how many? I kinda thought they were just training stories. 

And yeah, I bet Sitwell misses me. Misses me like a hole in the head, he’s probably filing all the paperwork he can to make sure he doesn’t have to be my handler when I get back, if Hand doesn’t beat him to it. Bobbi says she got on well enough with the guy. Mack too. Must be me.

Back in the air tomorrow, which is good because assessment month starts next week.

Wish me luck?

C

 **29th August**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Sorry you’re feeling rough, get to bed earlier man, what were you even doing up then? Sleep is good! Less coffee until I get the one you owe me. 

Okay, so, war games. Have a look at the file attached, what do you think? Is this a good plan or am I about to have my ass handed to me? 

And before you say anything, it’s not cheating because I did the work, a second opinion would just be nice. Pretty please?

C

 **3rd September**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

I am glad you think so!

C

 **6th September**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Hah! Took Bobbi down in like an hour. She was not pleased, I had to buy ice-cream and make it up to her. Though maybe she just wanted ice-cream. Have I been had?

You feeling better?

C

 **18th September**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Good. Keep doing it!

Last week, final exams. Tell me I’ll do okay.

C

 **18th September**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Thank you

C

 **20th September**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Well of course I’m coming back to the Trisk, where else? I still gotta get solo-op certified and you owe me a coffee. Bobbi’s coming back too before she gets posted out again, which is cool, Mack is going to the Junk Shop for some engineering speciality training or something. I’ll be back in a couple weeks. Assuming I pass.

Be good to see you Phil.

C

 **4th October**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Hell yes I’m using the title! Pilot-Specialist Barton sounds too awesome to not! 

I wish Barney could see me now, he’d think he was still on the good drugs.

Thanks for the champagne, we enjoyed it, I took full credit for having expensive taste (yeah right). Very James Bond!

C

 **6th October**  
To: Phil@canthelphimselfwiththecoul.com  
From: Clint@goshilovearrows.org

Back tomorrow!

C

>>===>>

Phil smiled and shut down the word file, closed his laptop. Maybe saving all the emails had been a bit over the top, after all, they were only brief notes, sporadically sent and nothing personal, but he’d felt better to have something of Clint secured where he could see it whenever he wanted. Even if it was just digital files it had helped a little with the nag of the _pull_ that had grown more insistent the longer Clint was away. Not enough to stop him doing his job, or really to inconvenience even, but the strange vacancy lingered in the back of his head and was a tiny, constant reminder that something was missing.

But not any more! Clint was back today and, judging by the notes on the transport schedules, should be landing in his room in about, oh, he glanced at his watch, thirty-five minutes. If he wanted to be the one to surprise Clint for once he’d better get moving.

>>===>>

It was odd, Phil couldn’t help but think, he’d faced down several bio or technologically enhanced madmen, packs of genetically engineered animals including dogs, wolves and once, most disturbingly, hamsters, and even some sort of semi-sentient slime, all in the last two years, but walking down the corridor towards Clint’s quarters was strangely nerve-wracking. It wasn’t like Phil hadn’t been in the junior Agent wing before, but he’d never been there to visit Clint before. He wasn’t _supposed_ to visit Clint. Which had to be the reason for his heightened senses and elevated heart-rate, it was just jitters about being spotted. That was all. Had to be.

But Clint had been away for four months and surely nobody really cared what Phil did after all so just once he’d decided to say fuck it to regulations and take a little risk. After he’d temporarily fixed the camera feed for that corridor of course.

The coffee in its take-away cup was hot in his hand and sticky where the topping was managing to melt down the sides, the excess overflowing despite the little plastic dome the barista had insisted on. He wondered if it was perhaps a touch ridiculous, but it was too late now, because here was Clint’s door.

Never let it be said that Phil Coulson was a hesitator. He took a deep breath and firmly knocked.

Through the door he heard sounds of scuffling and hurried mumbles and then the door flew open and Phil found himself face to face with the vision of tall, blonde and rather mussed loveliness that was Agent Bobbi Morse. Seeing him, she blushed faintly, “Agent Coulson! Sir! Erm, can I help you with something?”

“Aw, damn, no…” the mumble came from within the room and Phil peered past Morse to where Clint was struggling up from where he’d obviously been lying reclined on his bed, propped up on pillows, cheeks flushed, lips red and his shirt ridden up just enough that Phil’s eye caught on the strip of golden skin covering the sharp line of hip bone and locked there for a long second before managing to make its back way up to Clint’s face. 

Which was a study in pure embarrassed panic. 

Oh.

Phil swallowed, hard, and slammed his Senior Agent face down like a visor.  
“Agent Morse. Good to see you again.” His voice was steady as a rock, flat as a millpond as he replied. “I was just passing and wanted to offer my congratulations to Agent Barton on passing his pilot training. And to you of course. But I can see you are occupied. My apologies. Another time.”

He whirled on his heel and continued down the corridor as if he had somewhere else to be. Morse started to offer a thank you, but he didn’t pause so she stumbled to a halt and turned back into the room. Clearly, Phil heard her say, 

“Well, that was weird. I didn’t think you knew Coulson?”

Clint’s reply was indistinct but it sounded like “I don’t. Not really.”

The door was closing now but Phil caught Morse’s giggle.

“Weird. Did you see that drink? I would not have picked that for Coulson! Who even puts that much cream on a coffee? If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn there were sprinkles. As if! Now then, where were we…?”

The latch clicked on her laugh.

At the next corner in the corridor there was a trash can. Phil dropped the cup in whole without breaking stride.

>>===>>

The rest of the day was a strange exercise in avoidance. Phil battled his way through countless mission prep folders, post-op reports, personnel files and a myriad of other dry and boring jobs from his to-do list just because he had to keep his mind occupied. The strings of numbers, dates and codes all helped hold at bay the tiny little voice of the _pull_ which wanted him to storm back up to Clint’s room and yell as loud as he could ‘this is mine!’. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t, because Clint wasn’t and he should not have let himself forget that. And if he followed his instinct and did what he wanted then not only would he run the risk of ruining what he _did_ have, he would also have to face the Code of Conduct. So he locked his office door and drowned the impulse in paper until his eyes began to blur, all the while pretending he wasn’t straining to hear the beep of the vent magnets being disengaged, completely unsure if he wanted it to sound or not. It never did.

Eventually, the growling of his stomach and growing headache brought him out of the box-file coma. Phil looked at his immaculate desk, clear of even the oldest piles of pending paperwork. There was literally nothing else he could do. He looked at his watch and sighed. It was late, he was exhausted, time to go home. At least he would sleep.

Phil didn’t sleep. 

After several hours of tossing, turning, _not_ thinking about the look on Clint’s face or Bobbi’s mussed-up hair (why couldn’t he stop thinking about it? Why did it matter so much?), and generally being cross with blankets, himself and the world at large he lurched out of the bed and dragged on his clothes. The mirror showed him a mess of a man, dark circles, slumped shoulders, red eyes and wrinkled suit and he felt the anger boiling up again. This would not do. This wasn’t who he was! He needed to reset, get back his equilibrium and there was only one place to go. Grabbing his gym bag from its usual place of readiness by the door he headed out.

It was early enough that the firing range in the base of the Trisk was empty when he arrived. Perfect. Phil changed into a S.H.I.E.L.D. issue black workout suit and checked out a couple of handguns, firing off a clip or two from each, just to get his eye in. Each squeeze of the trigger felt grounding, the sharp noises and odours that came with gunfire familiar and frighteningly head-clearing, but it wasn’t quite enough. Stowing the guns first, he moved over to the tactical analysis simulation court and pulled up a random program, keying the difficulty to high. As soon as he put in the required earpieces, picked up the digital handgun and slid the visor into place, the programme began to run. The latest in virtual reality, the tacsim allowed agents to practise both analysis and physical reaction, a bit like sparring with a computer. The court wasn’t Phil’s usual choice but today its mixture of brain and body work was just what he needed. Following the quick briefing detailing what was known of the artificial situation, a kidnapping involving three victims, six mercenaries and a large amount of explosives, Phil found himself transported into the industrial wasteland of the story and proceeded to kick ass. The program was quick and clever, nearly taking Phil out, but only nearly, on several occasions, and gloriously all-consuming. As each ‘bullet’ was ‘fired’, each ‘bad guy’ fell and each ‘victim’ was rescued, Phil felt parts of himself slotting back into place. His movements became easier, more fluid, his reflexes faster and more accurate and the second scenario played out much the same as the first. The third was even better. More of a war game than a firefight it gave him several cadres of agents to deploy as back up and he enjoyed the stretch in his mind as much as in his legs as he somersaulted one way and sent agents the other. 

By the time the fourth round of the simulation ended he was sweating but exhilarated and most importantly feeling a lot more like himself. On top of the situation, on top of his feelings and in control of things again. Balanced. And if he applied the tactical analysis procedures to his situation, why wouldn’t he be? So Clint had found himself a girlfriend? So what. Phil was still exactly where he’d promised himself he’d be. 

The simple facts of the matter were were; Clint didn’t belong to him, they hadn’t _matched_ , Clint didn’t even want him that way and therefore Clint was perfectly free to do what he wanted with whoever he wanted. He was a friend and Phil wanted him to be happy. Their relationship, even as it was, should never have existed. Phil had known that and allowed the friendship it to happen anyway, even knowing that it was against regs and he already had more than he could ever have expected. He didn’t, couldn’t, need more. Therefore this hissy fit his emotions were having was nothing more than a pity party that he had nobody to blame for except himself. He had caused it. Therefore he could get a hold on himself and stop it, And he would. It was simple cause/effect tactical analysis. 

Plus, the damn _pull_ had to give in eventually, didn’t it? 

Stretching his shoulders, feeling a lot more centred and relaxed than he had in days, Phil removed his earpieces and slipped off the visor and was startled by the sound that crashed in from outside the tacsim court’s doors. What the hell? He turned and was greeted by more enthusiastic applause from a group of cadets who had clearly been on an early morning tour and stopped to watch his workout on the exterior screens the court provided. Nearby, May leaned against the wall with a smirk.  
“Class!” she called out as he exited the court, “That was a top-class demonstration of in-the-moment tactical analysis and I want you to remember it. Now, go to the screen and pull up minute 15:34 of the last rotation. I’m going to give you three minutes to determine exactly why the second team of agents were sent left and not right and how this decision affected the next two minutes of the op. Least impressive answer gets extra sparring this afternoon.” The students filtered away to the screen with excited chatter and not a few admiring glances thrown Phil’s way. He raised an eyebrow at May.  
“Now I’m a teaching aid?”  
Her smirk just grew wider. “I take my opportunities where I find them. Adaptability is the mark of a good teacher.”  
Phil shook his head, but good naturedly and headed towards the shower. May called after him,  
“Looking good Agent Coulson!”

And Phil had to smile. 

He felt good.

>>===>>

He was still feeling good that afternoon when Clint dropped out of the vent, landing on the floor with a showy flip.  
“For you man.” he said, placing a miraculously unspilled coffee on the desk. “Look, about yesterday…”  
“It’s okay,” Phil cut him off. “You weren’t to know I would come round. I guess I surprised you.”  
Clint chuckled sheepishly. “Yeah, a bit. Bobbi and me, you see, we kinda hit it off at the Bird House, she’s pretty cool and…”  
Phil interrupted again “Clint. I don’t need the gory details.”  
“You weren’t going to get any!” Clint exclaimed in mock-outrage. I do not kiss and tell. I just...” he looked down, red-faced. “I should have said something.”  
Phil busied himself shuffling papers on the desk. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything.”  
Clint barked a laugh outright at that, looking pointedly down at his S.H.I.E.L.D. issue shirt, now embroidered with the ‘pilot’ insignia. “Yeah, sure, Phil, not much.”  
The awkward silence stretched out for a few moments until Phil cleared his throat. “Yes, well, most of that was down to you. You wouldn’t have passed if you weren’t good. And speaking of good, I want a full account of how that war game plan played out, your emails were pretty spotty.”  
“Sure,” Clint grinned, a mixture of relief and cheek, “but first, the cadets this morning were all a twitter about some Agent going full BAMF on the tacsim, any ideas who that might be?”  
Phil couldn’t help smiling himself at that. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“I bet. I saw some footage. Impressive.” Clint nodded, flopping down onto his usual spot on the couch. “Drink your coffee before it gets cold and tell me all about it.”

So Phil did. And it was good. Their easy banter was still intact, despite the time Clint had been away and he didn’t seem to have noticed anything beyond his own embarrassment about Phil’s accidental party crashing so Phil counted that as a win for his triumph of intellect over emotion. He was in control of the situation, and it was good.

It was also good when they resumed their old routine, Clint dropping in every couple of days to complete paperwork, chat and occasionally look over Phil’s projects as if nothing was different between them. And nothing was. Which was just fine with Phil. Honestly. And if Clint sometimes got texts while he was in the office and if those texts sometimes made him smile in a certain way, and if he sometimes came in with marks on his neck that looked very much like hickies, and if that smile or those marks made Phil’s _pull_ flare like someone was pulling a needle through his brain and if he sometimes had to clench his fist until his nails dug into his palm to keep from acting on it and if sometimes left him with tiny crescent-shaped bruises...well. That was just something he would just have to get over. Something that would never be for him. Things were back to their normal. So it was all good.

It was.

>>===>>

Phil was returning to the Trisk late on a Friday after a two-week op involving, of all the petty, stupid things, a genetic scientist who had doctored the water fountains at his workplace as revenge after being fired, when he noticed the chatter.

The op had been fairly simple and once Phil had calmed down the employees who had found themselves suddenly sporting a lot more hair and, in some cases, a few extra appendages, it had only been a matter of tracking down the disgruntled scientist and applying the proper motivation to encourage him to reverse-engineer his prank and then finding a suitably secure and S.H.I.E.L.D. controlled lab where he could continue his research. So it had been a pleasure to complete. A nice stretch of his metaphorical field-work legs. On the way in he’d called into the good coffee place and been tempted into buying a cup of the new special, a cherry-laced latte concoction that he was looking forward to recommending to Clint, so all in all he was feeling good. Rounding a corner in the corridor near his office he found the commotion being caused by a knot of Agents all gossiping about something or other. He rolled his eyes and went to slip past when he heard his name being called.  
“Phil! Phil, you’re back, how’d the op go?” It was Sitwell, member of Phil’s graduating class and longtime colleague.  
“Fine, thanks Jasper. Simple stuff, standard evil genius type.” He waved at the chattering group. “What’s all this?”  
“Oh, yeah. You won’t have heard. You know Agent Morse right? Bobbi Morse? She made her _find_ this morning. Middle of an op briefing, quite the surprise for everyone…”

The thunder of blood in Phil’s ears drowned out the rest of Jasper’s explanation. All he heard was white noise as his entire body flooded with a sudden sick heat and then went ice-cold all over. He had to run, get away, sit down, yell, something. Anything. 

“I…have…paperwork.” Phil pushed his way past and carried on down the corridor, heart racing, barely hearing Jasper call after him,

“She’s standing everyone a round at the bar later, you’re gonna come, right?”

He nodded stiffly without turning round and moved for the safety of his office with the focus of a drowning man swimming to a life raft. 

As soon as the door closed safely behind him Phil froze, just stood stock still in the middle of his office as if that could make it go away, make it not have happened, because if Bobbi had made her _find_ then that had to mean…

Shit.

Suddenly his hand was pressed over his mouth and he just _moaned_ into it, hoping to muffle the noise of shock and loss that punched up from his clenching belly and threatened to take him to his knees.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit _shit_.

Staggering, he made it his desk chair and just about managed to put the coffee safely down before he collapsed onto it, gasping. 

Phil blinked back the angry tears that had suddenly attacked him, struggled for a calm breath and let the revelation settle over him. 

Oh God.

He hadn’t known.

He honestly hadn’t. 

But _how_ could he not have? He _prided_ himself on his ability to see details, to make connections, to extrapolate from incomplete data, so how had this happened? How could he have been so _fucking self-deluding_ and wilfully _blind_? Because apparently, as his heart had just decided to tell his brain (surprise!) everything was much worse than he’d let himself understand. He wasn’t just an Unrequited _find_ dealing with an inappropriate attachment to his soulmate that he had to manage without negatively affecting either of them, shitty as that was in itself. This was so much, so much _worse_.

He was in love with Clint.

Of course he bloody was. He wasn’t just physically attracted to him, as much as he’d tried to deny even that, he wasn’t just feeling the effects of the _pull_ and the normal desire to be with a soulmate. Somewhere during their inappropriate friendship Phil’s heart had crossed the line and he’d fallen for him. 

He was in love with Clint.

Probably had been since the instant he dropped through the vent with that stupid purple travel mug and his stupid paperwork and stupid questions. And Clint had been a friend, yes, but he’d not been Phil’s _match_ , Clint didn’t want him like that and he’d taken up with Morse and now he was gone.

Phil was in love with Clint and he wasn’t Clint’s soulmate and now Clint was _matched_ and gone and Phil’s ridiculous, self-delusion was shattered and what had he expected? That they’d carry on in unmatched - meeting-in-secret, acting-against-regs, happy-mutual-bachelorhood for ever? What an idiot. He was a damned fool.

It hurt more than Phil had ever thought was possible and he had absolutely no idea what to do.

A quiet knock startled his head up out of his hands and he frantically schooled his face to its best bland expression just seconds before Agent May slipped though the door. Dropping into the chair opposite his she spoke without preamble.

“It wasn’t Barton.”

“What?” 

“Morse’s _find_ ,” May said, softly, “It wasn’t for Barton. We were briefing with a bunch of Hartley’s mercenaries about that op over in California. She brought this new guy, Lance Hunter, he spoke one word to Morse, she as much as raised an eyebrow back and boom, soulflares, _match_. He’s British. Morse can’t decide if she’s pissed or pleased, hence the open bar, which those two may well drain all by themselves. Barton wasn’t even there.”

Phil put all his strength into maintaining a neutral tone despite wanting to sag and gasp with relief. “That’s very interesting May, but I don’t know why you think you have to come and tell me. I barely even know…”

“Phil.” May cut him off simply, knowingly, and he was caught.

“Shit.” He slumped in the chair. “How obvious am I?”

May shook her head and smiled in what was probably meant to be a reassuring way. “You’re fine Phil. I doubt anyone else would see anything. I do have an advantage.”

That brought Phil’s head up again. “You know?”

“I do.” She said, gently. “You made your _find_ , it was for Barton, it’s Unrequited and that sucks. I’m sorry Phil.”

“How?”

“Fury.”

“Nick told you?” Phil stood, the unreasonable anger he’d felt at thinking Clint was matched bubbling back to the surface, glad to suddenly have a righteous cause to hang on to. “Why the hell would he do that?”

“He asked me to watch you.”

“For god’s sake!” It came out half hiss, half shout and all rage, “I don’t need you to keep an eye on me!” 

“Philip J Coulson,” May snapped, “you know perfectly well that there’s a difference between ‘keeping an eye on’ and ‘keeping an eye out for’. Which do you think I was asked to do? Fury, and me, we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Phil deflated and sat again, immediately regretting raising his voice. “I am.”

“Phil.” Her mouth twisted in a disbelieving grimace. “Come on. You didn’t just see your face.”

“No, May, I am. Or I will be. It was just a bit of a shock, thinking…well. You’ve had the _pull_ before you and Andrew made your _bind_ , you know how it gets.” He continued, willing her to believe the story he was weaving and just give him some time alone to process. “But I’m fine really. Like I said, I barely know him. That was just the effect of the _pull_ , I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m fine now. You know me. Always fine.”

May squinted at him suspiciously but he maintained his tight smile and gave nothing away.

“Okay.” She frowned, but stood. “If you’re sure.” She went to the door but stopped with her hand on the handle. “Just, Phil, you know, it’s been almost a year since you made your _find_ , and if you haven’t _matched_ yet, if you haven’t been able to speak his hearttongue by now, then…”

“I know. I’m not holding my breath.”

“Good. Because Fury wanted me to warn you again about the dangers of breaking regs, but I’m more concerned about you breaking something else.”

“May.” Phil contrived a laugh. “I’m grateful, but, honestly, both regs and heart remain intact.”

“Good,” she said, opening the door, “if you’re sure.”

“I am.” He did his best to look reassuring as she left, but sank gratefully back into the chair as soon as the latch clicked shut. 

Apparently lying to your friends was exhausting.

>>===>>

It was an hour before Phil realised that he’d just been sitting, staring into space like some sort of robot whose software had crashed. 

Damn it.

Right. He had to sort out his head. May was right, he ought to follow the rules, because if he had, then he wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place. So. He would do it now and protect himself from any more days like today, so that when Clint actually did make his _find_ , which was bound to happen sooner or later, he wouldn’t be floored by it. Doing the dance of distance now that he knew exactly how deeply his feelings ran wouldn’t be possible or sustainable. It made no sense. He’d have to cut ties with Clint and that would be horribly hard but what other option was there? Nothing could be worth going through that pain again and for real.

But first.

A glance at the clock told him it was after nine so it should be safe to leave the office without bumping into any other late-workers. By now most Agents he knew would be home, or even down in the bar with Morse so he’d be able to make it out without getting caught up in the festivities. And then he planned to get changed, head out to a bar, get very, very drunk, maybe even pick up someone looking to get laid, take them home and begin the hot and sweaty process of forgetting Clint Barton’s existence.

He opened his bag and threw in a couple of files that would serve as hangover paperwork, zipped it up and was almost at the door when a very familiar beep sounded and Phil’s heart sank into the very soles of his shiny shoes. Oh, brilliant.

Sure enough, Clint dropped into the room, but with none of his usual showmanship. In fact, he practically fell out of the vent and flopped gracelessly onto the couch. Phil turned and his eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Dressed scruffily, even for him, in ripped jeans and a t-shirt so old it was practically see-through, Clint’s hair was a mess, his eyes red-rimmed and face drawn. He looked like hell. Phil’s heart sank even further, oh god, no. His gut churned. Had Clint come looking for someone to talk to about his break-up with Bobbi? Please, no. He wasn’t sure he had the strength.

Clint smiled wearily. “Hey Phil. Mind if I sit here for a bit?”

“Actually,” Phil tried to sound breezy, “I was just heading home for the weekend. I have plans.”

“Oh.” Such a small, abandoned noise. “Sorry. I didn’t know” 

Clint somehow shrank further into the couch and Phil spoke before he thought, just to offer some crumb of connection. “I’m sorry about you and Bobbi.”

“What?” Clint looked puzzled.

“You and Bobbi. She made her _find_ today didn’t she? So, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you two.”

“Oh, that.” Clint huffed a small laugh. “Nah, it’s all good, that was over a good week ago anyway. Bobbi’s cool, and of course, so hot, but we were just having fun, that’s all. And she’s _matched_ now.” He laughed again and it sounded so tired. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t ask her to go broken-bonded over me.” He waved vaguely. “I guess you can’t fight destiny.”

Phil’s chest seized tight under his bright purple soulwords. “No.” he said, bitterly “I guess you can’t.”

Clint’s eyes went wide. “Oh, crap, Phil, I’m sorry, I forgot, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” he exclaimed “It’s not. I’m sorry. It’s just, god. I am the worst. You know why? I was on my way down to the bar and suddenly realised what day it is. December 12th. Barney’s birthday. Can you imagine? My own dead brother’s birthday and I almost forgot.” Clint looked down, clearly guilt stricken. “I missed it last year what with the mess of trying to figure out who killed him and I almost forgot again this year. I was nearly there, nearly had the beer in my hand and it just came to me and suddenly I had to get out of there. I couldn’t stand having anyone around me, laughing and celebrating when Barney’s _dead_. He’s dead. I just couldn’t stand the company.” His voice broke. “He would have been thirty-one, Phil. Thirty-fucking-one.” He sighed a sigh that came from the depths of the earth and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t mind me, Phil. You’ve got plans. You head home. I’ll just sit here for a bit.” He waved vaguely at the couch and curled his legs under him until he was in an impossibly small ball.

Phil almost did it. He almost kept to his plan and headed out to commence Project FC or ‘Forget-Clint’. He meant to, but his brain snagged on something Clint had said.

“Clint,” he said cautiously “you said you didn’t want company, so you came here. But you didn’t know I was going home.”

“So?”

“So, I would have been company.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Clint leaned his head back, eyes closed. “Nah, you wouldn’t Phil. Not the same.”

That was the moment when Phil knew exactly how much trouble he was in. He was doomed. He was never getting off this rollercoaster. Because that was the moment he realised he was totally incapable of leaving Clint, his soulmate and the gorgeous, damaged man he had hopelessly and irrevocably fallen for, when he was so alone and sad and small. And it wasn’t just the _pull_ , or the attraction. It was Clint, who deserved better. And Phil just couldn’t leave him, no matter how much it was going to hurt him further down the line.

Even with May’s concern and Fury’s warning ringing in his ears, he couldn’t. 

Putting down his bag Phil walked back across the room to where Clint was huddling into the couch. 

He put out his hand.

“Clint. Hey. Do you want to come home with me?”

>>===>>


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, don't have a heart attack this is really me *gasp* updating early. The thing is, I try to stay two chapters ahead of my posting in case of emergencies and, being as Chapter Eleven kinda wrote itself and I finished it today, I decided you could have Nine ahead of 'schedule' (as if I had a real schedule!).
> 
> Also, I had so many reviews that mentioned Clint's treatment of Phil as cruel for the last chapter, which was sort of a bit freaky (though of course I have to say I was just dying with love for you all for the analysis. Everything from your one line comments to the deep discussions some of you are kind enough to spare time for makes my heart sing and the stuff that surprises me is just amazing. So thank you all again and again!) because I never saw it really that way and I'm really really interested to see what you make of this. I wrote it a couple of weeks ago, before Chapter Eight posted and I hope it offers another perspective.
> 
> I've loved writing Phil but it's time we got back to seeing what Clint's making of everything for a while (Clint's history being Clint's history I'll add a mild warning for references to unhappy childhoods and violence. Nothing major, but it's inherently there.) So here you go! Enjoy x

>>===>>

For a moment Clint just stared blankly at the hand being offered to him.

“What?”

Phil sighed. “It’s late, I’m tired and I’m going home. Would you like to come?”

Would he? Clint hardly knew. He was miserable, guilty, so, so weary and he honestly didn’t know what he would ‘like’.

And this was Phil. _Phil_.

Clint could say, in the privacy of his own head, to say he liked Phil. Honestly actually liked him. And yeah, sure, also found him ridiculously hot, pretty much had since the second Phil had broken out of his hold and put him on his knees. (So badass competence was hot, so shoot him). But this offer wasn’t about that. Phil had never showed even the slightest twitch of interest in him that way and, by god, Clint knew he’d pushed. He’d had to.

That first coffee, he’d gone to offer it for all the right reasons, he really had. Buoyed up on a new life, new chance, and a genuine wish to thank the guy who’d had the major hand in it, coffee had seemed a good plan. And yeah, that hour had been awesome, beyond awesome, and he’d left buzzing, with the weird warm feeling in his belly that wasn’t just the caffeine. 

But it hadn’t taken too long for the doubts to creep in. S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed like the gig of a lifetime, and Phil? Badass, hot, competent, senior, clearly willing to break rules? That was a hell of a wish-list, and alone in his bunk away from that mild little smile it seemed a lot more likely that what seemed too good to be true would turn out to be exactly that. Phil seemed like a good guy, but it wasn’t clever to let himself get carried away. Clint had met ‘good guys’ before. It never paid to trust too soon.

So, he’d challenged that first impression, and pushed.

Turning up in Phil’s office over and over, asking for help with ridiculous things like his tac suit design (as if he couldn’t have talked his way around that on his own, though the goat thing had been faster and funnier), showing off the results on his body, which he knew was pretty damn good to look at, and generally using his tried and tested brand of pushy flirting to find Phil’s limits. Not that he didn’t mean it to some extent. Of course he did, Phil was, well, wow, but it was also his method. If he _didn’t_ push, _didn’t_ test limits, _didn’t_ know where they were, how would he know the game plan? How safe he was? What he might be asked for? He hated himself for it a little, but if but if life had taught him anything it was that you needed to know where you stood, in case it was on a fucking trapdoor.

So imagine his surprise when all that pushing had got him - nothing. Not one thing. Phil hadn’t reacted to him except to advise, be friendly, to help Clint build himself a place and to stress his value to S.H.I.E.L.D. With the uniform, he hadn’t given Clint any advantage that might have come with his rank, nothing he could later have used as a blackmail, or a guilt-trip, just some silly insider tricks. Same with the paperwork. And, more tellingly, there’d never been a single favour asked in return, not one. None of the ‘you’ll scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’ that had been such a feature in Clint’s old life, not on the work side of things, or on the personal. Not even a lustful look, or a reprimand for breaking the Soulmate Code regs. Clint expected to be locked out or used up at any second and it just…hadn’t happened.

That never happened. 

Everyone wanted something. His time, his strength maybe his talents. The circus goons had wanted his obedience, his youth, his skills, Barney wanted his help, his support, his blind loyalty and his silence. Seems everyone wanted his shooting arm, most even asked for his blood. S.H.I.E.L.D. had to want something.

So he kept looking, kept making contact because if Phil was what S.H.I.E.L.D. was like operating out of sight and off the official radar, then surely he would be at the centre of where the cracks would appear. Because surely cracks were going to appear?

But they didn’t.

Phil just continued to give back at every turn, to offer his help, his ear, his time and attention. Damn, the only thing he took was Clint’s advice on some files and, fuck, who did that? Who took Clint’s point of view seriously? Treated him like his opinion mattered? Ever? It turned out Phil really was a good guy. A great guy. Maybe even the best guy.

By the time Clint had realised that he had stopped bracing himself for the shit to hit the fan and admitted that all his ‘tests’ were really excuses to see Phil because he just wanted to (and probably had been no later than the third time he’d dropped uninvited into Phil’s office), he was in deep and had no desire to get out. No desire to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. which, it had to be said, had treated him well, fed him, clothed him, offered him training and improvement and showed no sign of taking it back, and no desire whatsoever to leave Phil either. It might have been Phil who made his _find_ but it was Clint who felt bound, bound by gratitude and affection to this mild-mannered, badass man who, Clint had slowly come to understand, was genuinely his friend.

Unreal.

So the meetings in Phil’s office, the banter, the coffees, the jokes and late-night conversations became something Clint believed in, looked forward to and then basked in like a plant under sunshine. With that and the rest of his training, he could almost feel himself growing, becoming the ‘better’ he’d always dreamed he’d be one day. 

And he knew he’d never be able to pay Phil back, not for the way he helped deal with those drug runners, not for taking a chance on him, not for sorting out the shit with Samuel’s, not for still talking to him when he could just have cited regs and fucked off out of his life, not for any of it. Because what did he have to offer someone that put together, that sorted, that awesome? But there was coffee and there were stupid crass jokes and lower-levels gossip and he could bring all of that to Phil’s office because he thought that Phil enjoyed it and sometimes, just sometimes, he could erase that little crease that appeared on Phil’s forehead when he was thinking too much. And when Phil laughed, well. Clint understood where the image of ‘Robot Agent Coulson’ had come from because he’d seen Phil in ‘official’ mode, though mainly from a distance, but it wasn’t true. Phil was tough, badass, inscrutable, all those things. But not just those things. He was quick, witty, cheeky, even, sometimes and Clint could make him laugh. And when he did, it was like that moment when he’d made every shot and the crowd was exploding with applause, where there was nothing but him and the lights and the triumph and he couldn’t do anything wrong. Clint hit a lifetime’s supply of bullseyes and stuck a thousand showy landings all in that one moment, that one genuine belly-laugh, set of sparkling eyes and one crease-free brow. Each and every chuckle tasted like triumph. So, yeah. Coffee and occasional giggles in return for a whole life changed. It was the best he could offer.

 

Not that he wouldn’t have said yes to a little more from Phil. Those eyes, the suit, that smile, their easy way of being? Yeah, he definitely felt the attraction. But he wasn’t about to ask for more when it wasn’t being offered, not when all his hints had been missed or, worse, ignored. That was a good way to get kicked in the teeth and put out in the cold again. Clint was not willing to risk spoiling what they had if there was even the smallest chance that he might, for once, be allowed to keep a good thing.

Plus, Phil stuck almost religiously to the soulmate regs, never initiating contact, always letting Clint make the moves. Clint could see why and he didn’t mind. He had no problem being the one breaking rules if they were stupid rules and if he was sure nobody would get hurt. And he wouldn’t want to bring trouble down on Phil who could surely make use of plausible deniability as long as Clint did the running. But that seemed like a pretty good hint in itself, didn’t it?

So that was fine. Things were good. He was getting happy.

And then he’d gone to the Bird House.

Which was, in itself, the most awesome thing. Who would have imagined that an Iowa boy like him would ever have gotten on the stick of a machine like a quinjet? The thrill was almost as great as the thrill that came from knowing in the end that he had earned it, both his place in the program and his shiny new insignia. Earned it. Himself. Him. Wow.

And he’d missed meeting with Phil more than he’d expected, hadn’t realised quite how much he’d looked forward to their paperwork dates, but there had been admirable distractions; the greatest of them, of course, Bobbi. He’d unleashed his usual combination of charm and pushy flirting on his new classmates and while Mack and Evans had just brushed him off, Bobbi had given as good as she’d gotten and then more which made him laugh and their fall into ‘more than friends’ had been quick and pretty much inevitable. He liked her. They weren’t soulmates of course but neither of them had been looking for that; they were both grown adults with itches to scratch, that was all. Bobbi was fun to hang with and crazy good looking and they’d enjoyed themselves, no expectations and no promises. Just the way he liked it.

Yes it was.

But that day, when Phil had turned up out of the blue, the very first time Phil had been the one to bend the regs, the very first _fucking time_ , Clint had managed to fuck it up. And at first he’d just been embarrassed to be caught making out in the middle of the day like a teenager by the guy he kinda-sorta-maybe had a minor thing for but then he’d seen the ridiculous coffee and the complicated look that had flickered across Phil’s face for just the tiniest split second before ‘Agent Coulson’ had appeared and what the fuck had that been about? Was Phil _jealous_? Was he _interested_? Or just worried about being caught stretching regs and visiting a junior like Clint? And why did it make Clint feel like he’d been kicked in the stomach? It had been too confusing, especially with having to maintain that he didn’t know Phil and Bobbi making an admirable job of distracting him again, so he hadn’t said anything.

Despite then seeing the footage of Phil just downright _murdering_ that tacsim, which had hit him hard in the competence kink. Hell, yes. Awesome.

But Phil had never mentioned it either except to apologise and then they’d carried on as if Clint had never been away. Everything was exactly the same and Clint must have been mistaken so he made himself stop thinking about the ‘what if’ and just focus on what he had. A great job, a solid friend and an awesome girlfriend. Who wouldn’t be content?

Of course he was.

Eventually, the thing with Bobbi had petered out and reached its natural, amicable end, which was fine by the way, though it meant he found himself at a particularly lose end. Phil had been gone on op, and waiting to get solo-certified had left Clint with not nearly enough to do. He was restless and ungrounded. Then today Bobbi made her _find_ , which was great for her but a surprise and to be fair a bit weird, considering, and in all the fuss Clint had almost missed the date, almost forgotten it was Barney’s birthday, remembering finally in a flood of shock, sorrow and guilt that tasted like bile and had carried him to the safest place he knew in S.H.I.E.L.D.. Phil’s office.

Then, to top everything off even after Phil had offered his condolences like any real friend would have done, Clint had managed to make some crass soulmate joke to fucking him, of all people, the one person who had Clint’s colour somewhere on his body and, God, the look on his face. He’d actually looked pained. Hurt, even. Which was fair enough. He might care much about his stupid words but Clint knew it had to be embarrassing for a guy like Phil to have a hot mess like him for a soulmate, never mind having the trouble of being Unrequited into the bargain and not having a proper _match_. It was no wonder Phil kept it quiet and only an asshole would have mentioned it. Clint was an asshole.

And even now Phil was looking at him with this gentle puzzled look and offering to do the unthinkable, to totally crash the regs and take Clint out off-base. To his own, actual, _personal_ home. Clint didn’t get it. It was too much. He shook his head.

“You don’t mean it.”

“Clint.” Phil’s tone was gentle. “I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. Not to you. Not ever. If you want to come, you can come. Your call.”

It was a genuine choice being offered too, not like most of the others he’d made in his life where decisions had either been made for him or he’d only had one good option anyway. This was a real choice. He could say yes and everything would be okay. He could say no and everything would still be okay. And knowing that made it no choice at all. 

He was so tired.

He met Phil’s unwavering gaze.

“Yes. Yes please.”

>>===>>

“Okay then.” Phil gave that mild little smile of his. “Let’s get out of here.”

Clint clasped the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. “Okay, but how are we going to do that? Not be a downer or anything but you aren’t exactly supposed to be seen with me and I know it’s late and all but S.H.I.E.L.D. never sleeps, especially when the bar is open.” He shook his head. “We’ll never get off base without someone tattling to Fury. I guess we could use the vents for a bit, but then what?”

Phil just smiled more, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You think you’re the only one with secrets? Follow me.”

Clint followed, frowning sceptically, as Phil led the way to a large supply cupboard in the back of his office and opened it to show shelf upon neat shelf of files and stationary. He then watched open-mouthed as Phil slid his hand under one shelf and apparently triggered some sort of fingerprint lock that let the whole back of the cupboard swing out and forward to reveal a narrow dark hole in the floor. With a pole in it.

“You’re fucking kidding me Phil.”

“It was built as an emergency exit in case the Trisk ever got infiltrated. Generally, I’d take the stairs, but under the circumstances…” He glanced at Clint’s wide eyes. “It’s neat isn’t it?”

“Neat?” Clint exclaimed, “It’s a fucking fireman’s pole!”

“Technically it’s an Agent’s pole.”

Despite his shock, Clint grinned, “There are so many jokes I could make right now.”

Phil sighed. “I can imagine.”

Clint leaned forward and peered into the hole. It was illuminated by the office lights for the first few feet, the pole shining silver in the dark tunnel, and then, nothing. “How many storeys? Where do we end up?”

“16. The parking garage.”

“16 storeys? Holy fuck. How many times have you used this thing? And how many people died?”

“Times? A few, mainly to avoid paperwork. Deaths? None. Cross my heart.” Phil grinned, definitely a challenge. “You’ll be fine. Honestly.”

The stupid thing was, Clint believed him. “Okay, fine, let’s do this.”

“Great. I’ll go first.” Phil snagged a couple of pairs of tough-looking gloves from a wall shelf and tossed one over. “Count to ten and follow me. The door is triggered to shut as soon as the last body leaves this space so you don’t need to worry about closing anything.” And with that he buttoned his jacket, snapped on his gloves, braced his hand to the pole and dropped away into the dark.

“I must be losing it.” Clint muttered, putting on his own gloves, counting. “Ten. Fuck, here we go. Allons-y and geronimo!”

It was a wild and seemingly endless ride in the damn pitch black and Clint didn’t breathe the whole way so he arrived, plunging into some kind of air cushion that broke his fall and emerged gasping, pulling himself out to flop at Phil’s feet. Who looked as unruffled and immaculate as he ever did. Of course.

“You alright?”

Clint wobbled upright, adrenaline rushing suddenly through him. “I wanna go again.”

Phil chuckled. “Of course you do. But not now. Follow me.” Stripping off his gloves, he triggered an opening in one of the thin walls and led Clint out into, yes, the parking garage. Clint’s mouth hung open in amazement as the panel swung shut, sealing the exit which now looked for all the world like any other of the building’s support columns. “I’m going to fetch our ride. Wait here.”

For once, Clint did as he was told, shaking the fizz away from his fingers and waiting for the hum of one of the hybrid engines that were the staple runabouts for senior Agents, assuming Phil had gone to check one out of the motor pool.

Instead there came a throaty, understated roar and into view glided one of the most beautiful, the sexiest, the hottest cars Clint had ever seen, bright red, sleek and shining like a new penny with Phil behind the wheel with the beaming smile of a doting father. She was lovely, obviously a convertible but with her top up, probably mindful of the winter weather. Clint didn’t know much about cars, but this one was a stunner. He stepped forward, reverently.

“Oh my god, she’s gorgeous Phil. She yours?”

Smugly, “Yes.”

“What’s her name? A lady like this has to have a name.”

The smile Phil gave very much showed he was pleased with Clint’s reaction. “Clint, meet Lola.” He patted the seat beside him. “You getting in?”

Clint’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Awesome.” Pulling his sleeve down Clint covered his hands, mindful of getting finger marks on the sparkling chrome, opened the door and slid into the soft leather seat.

“Ohhhhhh, my.”

“I know.” Phil smirked. “Buckle up.”

Clint did as he was told and Lola roared quickly out of the garage, past a coded door quickly bypassed by Phil’s ID, out over the bridge across the river and into the city. Junior and probationary Agents like himself might live in barracks at the Trisk but most seniors were spread out across Washington, partly because they’d proven trustworthy enough to earn the privacy and partly because Fury didn’t believe in keeping all his eggs in one basket. Phil’s apartment seemed to be one of those further out and Clint settled back to enjoy the ride. Typically, with the adrenaline from the drop still buzzing his system, he couldn’t keep quiet for long.

“So Phil, tell me this. Amongst all the rumours and stories everyone likes to spread about you, and believe me, there are maaannnnnyyyyy, how come I’ve never heard one about Lola? Because I would have thought badass Agent Coulson having an equally badass, sex-on-wheels car would be like, serious gossip fodder. Not to mention fantasy fuel for all those baby agents who make heart-eyes at you.”

“Those what who do what now?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. But seriously, why?”

Phil was silent for a long moment and when Clint looked over he was surprised to see the faintest hint of a blush painting his cheekbones. “They don’t know about her. I store her at work, but I don’t use her there. Lola isn’t for S.H.I.E.L.D. She’s…personal.”

“Oh. Right.” He fell silent himself then. That was…something to think about.

>>===>>

They arrived at Phil’s apartment maybe half an hour later and Clint followed Phil quickly up the stairs, through the door that surely had some cleverly coded lock that Clint didn’t see him operate and into the apartment. It was sizeable but modest. Smart. Clean. And it looked almost like a store. As if Phil had just gone into IKEA with a brochure and said ‘I’ll take page 9’. Catching Clint’s raised eyebrow Phil smiled ruefully. “It came furnished and I’m, well, I suppose I’m not here that often. But the couch is comfortable. Sit.”

Clint did as he was told and Phil was right, the couch was very comfortable. He sighed and wriggled down into the copious, immaculate pillows while Phil headed into the open-plan kitchenette and began opening and closing cupboards. Suddenly Clint remembered something Phil had said back in the office.

“Phil, didn’t you have plans?”

“Not now. It was nothing important anyway.” He came to stand back in front of Clint’s chair. “So, what do you need? To talk? Crash out? Food? Drink? A movie? Game of Monopoly?”

The last piqued Clint’s interest. “You have a board?” 

Phil frowned. “No, actually.”

Clint’s face cracked in a huge yawn. “No worries, I’m probably too tired to last a whole game anyway, though I warn you, I would have kicked your ass. I’ll settle for a beer?”

“No beer either,” the faint blush returned, sheepishly, “I don’t often have company to drink with. Not here anyway.” Clint was about to ask why not 'here', but Phil’s face brightened. “I have scotch?”

“I can settle for scotch.”

Clint rested his head back as Phil rattled about fetching glasses, bottles and ice, only picking it back up and opening his eyes when he heard three measures being poured instead of the two he expected. Before he could ask Phil pressed a glass into his hands and came to take the opposite end of the couch. “Old S.H.I.E.L.D. tradition,” he explained setting the third glass in the centre of the room’s low coffee table, “a glass poured for absent friends. Who we love and wish were here.” He raised his own tumbler and clinked it gently against Clint’s. “To Barney.”

That was all it took. Clint drank and tried to echo the sentiment but his voice broke on the sudden tightness in his throat and abruptly he was all weepy and sobbing, talking without even knowing he was going to.

“Barney, man. Fucking Barney. He was almost thirteen when we ran. I was eight and small and Dad hadn’t really started beating on me yet, but Mom was pretty much gone and Barney knew it was coming. So when Carson’s Circus came to town, he sneaked in and got himself caught, pulled up in front of Carson. And do you know what he did? Offered his services as a gopher. Always brave, Barney, brave and stupid, even then. Big though, clever and Carson saw it. He always had a place for a likely lad. Two when Barney came for me. It was the middle of the night but I would have followed him anywhere.”

He took a shaky breath and look over at Phil, who just nodded, sat forward with his carefully neutral face and refilled Clint’s glass, saying nothing.

And that was how the rest of the evening went, Clint found himself spilling the whole of Barney’s story. Clint talked, Phil listened, Clint cried and Phil refilled his glass., 

“I was the small one, the quick one, Barney was bigger, already coming into his muscle. We worked on our ‘talents’, they called it training, beat the shit out of us both, called it ‘discipline’, gave us extravagant bribes, called it ‘reward’. We were messed up….”

Another glass.

“I’d been put to training with Trickshot when they started sending him out on jobs. He was intimidating, crafty, even that young. At first he got beat up some but not for long…he was too good. Didn’t take him long to rise to the top, to get the bigger jobs, the bigger money. He never told me much about what he was doing for them but with his pay and my show tips, we lived well, decked our trailer out like kings, always lost it if we fucked up, but then we always seemed to earn it back… It was a stupid way to live and a fucked-up way to grow up.”

Another nod from Phil, but no more. Another glass.

“He was 19 when Carson’s daughter, Deianira, Denny, came to travel with us. She’d been with her mother before but Daddy wanted her to see the empire she was going to inherit. She was a stone-cold bitch, and gorgeous. Barney was blown away, worked out some stupid excuse to go talk to Carson when she was there and boom, made his _find_. Bright green his words were, sickly green. It was mutual too, a _match_. Carson said he was delighted, keeping the business in the family, but I saw his face. We weren’t quite the level he wanted for his princess. Barney was desperate to _bind_ but they kept finding excuses, it was always ‘after this job, after this job, after the next fucking job’ and he got reckless, stupid. Started running with big names, bad names, trying to do anything to impress her. And that’s when it all went wrong.”

More tears. Another glass.

“He started doing freelance jobs, on the side, thinking Carson wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care, I don’t know. I was well under with Trickshot by then, Star of the fucking show by night, ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’, working all day, training or jobs, shooting where I was told, what I was told, _who_ I was told sometimes, taking my tips, taking my lumps, never fucking good enough. Never had a bow out of my hand. But I should have known…should have seen…he was my big brother and I should have…I should have…something.”

They sat in long moments of bleak silence, the pain in Clint’s chest, the hard rock of guilt too great to even get noise out. Phil’s hand came to rest gently on his knee. Another glass.

“Eventually he fucked up for real, took one too many chances and owed too much to the wrong people, called down trouble that would reflect on the Circus, on Carson himself. Barney knew he was in for it, went to Denny, begged her to run away with him. But it turned out that she cared a lot more about her daddy’s money than she did her soulmate and she gave him up, went broke- _bonded_ on him. I was there when his words broke. You ever seen broken soulwords? They just…snapped. All shattered on his skin, like cracked glass. You’ve never heard such a noise, cry like a wounded animal.”

Clint stared into the distance, then fiercely threw back the last of his scotch, desperate to just reach the end.

“She handed him over to Carson and when they brought him back, he was broken. Mind and body. Couldn’t work like he used to, couldn’t perform and there were rumours Carson was going to get rid of him. I’d had enough by then anyway so I managed to drag enough money out of hiding, get us an escape route, a place to burrow down until they stopped sniffing too closely for us. He got better, a bit, and we managed for a while but he never gave up on Denny. Everyone _knows_ broken _bonds_ don’t mend but he was convinced that he could win her back, finally get her consent to _bind_ her, if he just had enough power, enough money, enough status, enough…shit, I don’t know. He was a dreamer. 

“So I shot rats for cents and he spent it all at the tables, the track, raising stakes and taking risks, trying to buy his way back into the big leagues of bad and claim his soulmate back. He was missing for weeks at a time, always coming back just when I’d almost given up, almost got myself on track. That’s how he wound up with those lunatics with the serum you found me tracking, he played the big risks and then couldn’t pay back what he owed, so they used him as a guinea pig for that fucking stuff. He crawled back to me, literally crawled, but by the time he found me there was nothing I could do for him except make him comfortable and watch him fucking die of it.”

He met Phil’s eyes for the first time since he’d started talking. “That’s why I had to take them out Phil, you know? He was a jerk, Barney, an asshole with the judgement and luck of a fucking lump of rock. But he was my big brother, I loved him and he tried to take care of me, only person who ever did, and I had to…I had to try…I...I…oh, fuck, I miss him, Phil. I fucking miss him!”

Finally, Clint’s voice broke completely and the sobs poured out of him like poison from a wound. He lurched forwards, no idea where he was trying to go but Phil’s arms were already open. He fell into them gratefully and gracelessly, barely aware of the tight hug wrapping him, the voice telling him that he was safe now, that things would be alright. He tried to take a breath to speak but the relief of telling, the adrenaline, the nerves, not to mention the scotch, it was all making his head spin too much. Finally, the room tilted and the lights just winked out.

>>===>>

Clint woke with no idea where he was. He stayed perfectly still, the residue of a childhood where it didn’t pay to let anyone know you were awake until you knew exactly who was around, and assessed. A draught, but coming from the wrong direction. Sheets far finer than anything he owned. The wrong quality of light filtering through his closed eyelids. This was definitely not his room. So where was he? A moment later and it came slowly back, leaving S.H.I.E.L.D., Lola, the scotch, talking, him blubbering and then what? Vague memories of strong arms, stumbling, cool sheets and some words whispered over him, all jumbled together, nothing solid. But one thing he definitely remembered. He was in Phil’s apartment. So this must be…Phil’s bed? 

He went hot and then cold all over, panic seeping sickly under his skin. He made himself breathe evenly but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t know where the window was, he didn’t know where the door was, where were his exits? Where was his way out? His heart started to race. Fuck fuck fuck where was his way out?

How could he be so fucking stupid? He never slept anywhere without scanning the place, knowing the trap corners and having an exit planned, let alone getting fucking drunk, what the hell had he been thinking? Anything could happen and he _didn’t know how to get out._

Bracing himself he pushed down on the mattress and felt something solid under his hand. He cracked an eyelid to and it swam into view…a knife? A sheathed combat knife, the sort he favoured for throwing. What the hell was this now? Clint scrabbled upright, finally coming awake all the way, ready to bolt and froze instead at the view through the open bedroom door into the living room. Phil. Phil, crumpled into an armchair which had clearly been dragged to put it right in Clint’s waking eyeline, dozing fitfully with his back to Clint, facing his own room. The same Phil who must have put Clint to bed and put the knife by his hand. Between Clint and the world, Phil. On guard.

Clint sank back into the bed, all the fear blown out of him by shock. Phil. Who’d listened to his whole sorry story last night with not one word of judgement, given him a way to protect himself and then sat watch so that he could sleep. And yeah, maybe a watch hadn’t been necessary here in Phil’s own house but he’d sat it anyway, knowing that Clint would appreciate it, would _need_ it. 

Oh God.

Fear gave way to a deep, solid, warm gratitude. Nobody had done anything like that for Clint, not since he was young, with Barney, not for _years_. And he’d slept so _well_. It was a shock. Because it meant his body, or his subconscious, or whatever, had decided that he trusted Phil, to a deep deep level. Clint hadn’t had anyone to trust like that in a long, long time. Maybe never.

And then that warmth was swept away by the heat of anger. A hot rage that left him shaking as much as the panic had. It wasn’t fair! He was hideously, righteously angry and catching sight of his soulwords, scrawled along his forearm, unchanging and resolutely grey just made it burn higher. It wasn’t fucking _fair_! He’d given up his childhood fantasies about his soulmate, realised they would never come true, but now they all _were_ true, all of them, all true and all wrapped up in one handsome, understanding, decent goddamn package, and sitting just feet away in _that fucking chair_ but still he couldn’t make his _find_. For fucks sake! What else could destiny possibly need? 

 

Clint wanted to throw himself out of the bed and at Phil’s feet, tell him his soulwords and beg him to say them just so he could finally, finally be _matched_ , finally have someone to watch his back, finally not have to always be alone. He suddenly wanted Phil to be his soulmate with a longing that shook him to his normally sceptical core, wanted to _bind_ , even a platonic _bind_ , given that Phil had never shown any other interest, but anything, anything, anything where he could have someone who was _his_ , someone he could take care of himself for once, someone who would claim him for who he was, and not what he could offer. 

It wasn’t fair. Not on him, and definitely on Phil, who even if they had _matched_ would still have deserved so, so much better.

Clint inhaled slowly, deeply, breaths to calm himself. 

It was the most ridiculous idea. Especially for him. How much value did he usually put on the idea of soulmates? None. He’d never looked for his, not since his words came in, and the few people he knew who’d found theirs hadn’t exactly found happy ever after with it. The whole _find_ thing might matter to some people, but he didn’t give it much thought. Deliberately. It was all bullshit. He’d hoped for a partner one day, yeah, sure, but with his words? He didn’t need that crap messing up the picture. So where had this clawing longing suddenly come from? It was ridiculous. He made himself breathe again. And it didn’t matter anyway. Phil might have made his _find_ for him, but he wouldn’t want him like _that_ , not like Clint wanted Phil, not like he wanted to be wanted, not a guy like Phil, not without a _match_ to pull them together. Who would? Who ever had? He had to be realistic. Let it go. It wouldn’t happen.

In S.H.I.E.L.D., with Phil, he’d found a place to belong, to do good and someone he could trust, that was more than he’d ever really expected. It was enough. It absolutely was.

It would have to be. He would make it be.

He was just congratulating himself on his approach to calm rationality when there was a snuffled grunt from the doorway and Phil began to stir in his chair. He uncurled himself slowly and turned round to look at Clint, stretching, rubbing one hand across his adorably sleep-crumpled face, “Morning,” he yawned, “you sleep okay?”

It was like a punch from nowhere, knocking the wind out of him. This second, equally new and earth-shaking realisation. Clint just about managed to nod dumbly, totally distracted by the way his heart was suddenly turning giddy somersaults in his chest. It obviously didn’t give a crap about _matching_ either. Fuck.

He was completely screwed now, wasn’t he?

>>===>>


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! As always, I want to say thank you for your brilliant range of comments and discussions on the last chapter. This thing is the longest thing I've ever written and it just keeps expanding so all the interaction and encouragement is so very welcome! Hope you enjoy this latest step.
> 
> Just a brief warning for injury later in the chapter, nothing graphic but blood is mentioned, not wishing to squick anyone out. Here we go again...

>>===>>

“Off again are you Barton?” Evans called, his voice loud even against the hubbub of the Junior Agent’s rec room.

His companion, Mackie, lounging on the beat-up couch smirked good naturedly, “Of course he is, it’s a Friday and he’s not out on op so he’s off to see his Friday Fuckbuddy aren’t you Barton?”

Clint paused in the fastening of his jacket. “You can all fuck off.”

“Oh come on Barton, it’s been every free Friday for months!” Mackie laughed as Clint blushed, “They must be good…when are you gonna pass over some details? Or did you _find_ and not tell anyone? Should I look out my big hat for your _bind_ ceremony? I bet it’s gonna be beauuutifuuuulllll.”

Picking up his bag Clint continued to the door, not rising to the bait. “Like I said, fuck off.”

“Well, we hope you have a goooooood time!” Evans and Mackie threw themselves at each other, exchanging dramatic squeezes, air kisses and making noises that sounded very much like a sink being plunged.

Clint scowled and threw them a messy salute changed it at the last minute into a heartfelt flip of the bird and exited to the sound of raucous friendly laughter.

Twenty or so minutes, one bus ride and a short walk later and he was at the appropriate corner just in time for Lola to draw up. He grinned cheekily at Phil as he opened the passenger door, “Going my way Mister?”  
“Get in,” Phil said, rolling his eyes, “the take-out is getting cold. I went for Chinese, is that okay?”

Clint smiled as they pulled away. “Totally fine with me.”

>>===>>

It wasn’t every Friday. Sometimes their schedules just didn’t match up, Clint was on op more often now that he had his solo-cert, and Phil, as well as his own ops, had so much covert-ninja paperwork and planning to do that it boggled Clint’s mind. Plus the usual classes, training, sparring and stuff that came with working for a super-secret government agency that definitely didn’t have the weekends off. So it wasn’t every Friday. Just the best ones.

Clint wasn’t sure when it had become a thing. Given the snotty, tearful, drunken mess he’d been that first time and the way he’d pretty much sprinted out of Phil’s apartment the next morning when Phil had tried to talk to him (Phil had tried to actually say ‘thank you’ to him, like Clint’s shitty life story was some sort of gift), he’d very much expected to never be invited again. Plus, of course, meeting outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. would surely be a lot harder to explain if they were ever spotted doing it and, as much as he’d shown willing to bend them when Clint pushed, he knew regs were important to Phil. And clearly he didn’t have many guests at his actual home, so yeah. One off. Clint could respect Phil’s boundaries. One off. For sure.

Except, not.

Clint hadn’t had a clue what to do after that first night. He’d been horribly embarrassed about letting his tongue run away with him, spilling his guts in a way he never did and then having an ugly breakdown. Not to mention pretty taken aback by the realisation that his sorta-kinda-maybe ‘thing’ for Phil had become an ‘absolutely-positively-definitely’ ‘thing’ that went far beyond the realms of ‘he has a great ass in that suit and I’d like to see more of it’ to places Clint had never been before like ‘I want him to wrap me in those arms and keep me forever’ or ‘I wish you liked me like I like you’. That kind of soppy stuff that he’d usually laugh at but which apparently came when you trusted someone enough to fall asleep in their presence without an exit plan. 

It was, to be honest, a massive headfuck.

But then he was also ridiculously grateful for the calm and collected way Phil had listened, accepted and then kindly handled the hot mess he’d dissolved into and he had to do something, say something to show it. 

Inspiration had struck when he remembered the surprisingly, erm, _themed_ red, white and blue décor of Phil’s office (stumbled into when he was hunting for the bathroom) and one quick search on Amazon later he was dropping a ‘Captain America and the Howling Commandos’ limited edition Monopoly board onto Phil’s desk for him to find, smiling because he was sure that Phil would understand the joke, and that he’d appreciate it. 

And he’d fully expected that to be the end of that episode.

He hadn’t expected to get to the range the next day and find the little metal World War Two G.I. helmet attached to his quiver with a label showing a date, time and street name. And he hadn’t expected when he got there to see Phil draw up in one of the official hybrids, smiling, apologising for the subterfuge, asking “Got time for a game?” And he hadn’t expected it to become a semi-regular thing. But it had. And he loved it. 

>>===>>

In the apartment, Clint dropped the food bags onto the counter. “Phil, you want to stick these in the oven? They’re pretty cold.”

“Sure. I had to go round the block a few times before you got there. Bus?”

“Bus.” Clint agreed, now rummaging under Phil’s coffee table, “Public transport sucks.”

Phil winced as he pushed the cartons in to heat. “I know, I’m sorry that …”

“Hey, Phil, stop. I get it, I do, it’s no biggie. A late bus or two won’t kill me.” He stood up brandishing two boxes, “So tonight, Monopoly or movie? When it comes to exploring our shared geekiness, we’re up to _Labyrinth_.”

“Right,” Phil said, throwing over a bag of prawn crackers which Clint caught and promptly tore into, “either I let you add yet another win to your Monopoly total, or I get to sit back and watch David Bowie dancing in those ridiculous grey jodhpurs. Is that even a contest?” 

Clint grinned round a mouthful of crumbs. “You’re just sore because the scoreboard stands at twelve games to five.”

“If I’m sore, it’s because it shouldn’t statistically be possible for someone to get all four armed services and the Stark Mansion every single time they play, and yet you keep managing it.” He paused the business of arranging plates to cock a sceptical eyebrow and Clint absolutely didn’t acknowledge the fizz that put in his blood. “How many card tricks did you learn from those circus conjurers, hmm?”

“Phil! You wound me, I’m wounded, look,” Clint collapsed dramatically on the couch clutching his heart and then spoiled the effect by crunching into another cracker. “If you can’t avoid landing on my hotels, can I help that? Blame the dice, not me. But fine, _Labyrinth_ it is.” 

He hauled himself up and started setting up the DVD player, settling back once it was on to enjoy the menu screen music and wait for Phil. “So, focusing on your first comments, got a bit of a thing for the Goblin King have you?”

“Doesn’t everyone alive have a bit of a thing for Bowie? Isn’t that half his appeal?” Phil chuckled from the kitchen, “But not particularly, no. He’s a bit skinny to be my type, if I’m looking for a guy I prefer a bit more muscle, broader shoulders, like y…” the sentence stopped abruptly and Clint turned to find Phil frozen, plate of springrolls in each hand, lips clamped shut, staring like a rabbit caught in headlights. Clint met his gaze, heart pounding suddenly and blood definitely fizzing. The silence held for a few long seconds, but apparently Phil had nothing else to add. In the end, Clint couldn’t stand the tension

“So, Ludo then? Those shoulders are plenty broad.”

Phil snorted and came round to take the other end of the couch. “Yes, Clint,” he said, totally deadpan, “Ludo is exactly what I would look for in a partner. Broad shoulders, ginger and, most importantly, a man of few words.” He passed Clint a plate and settled back, crossing his legs. “And yes, you are welcome to take that as a hint.”

Clint laughed then, curled his own legs under himself, ignored the prickling of disappointment under his skin and pressed play. 

In the end, neither of them were particularly silent during the film, but, honestly, who could be expected to resist the invitation to ‘chilly down with the bog dance’, even if most of S.H.I.E.L.D. would have checked themselves into psych before they’d have believed the sight of one of their most senior Agents entreating one of their most deadly marksmen to ‘take off your ears’. Clint figured that was their loss.

Eventually with the movie finished, beer consumed, and a Monopoly game started but abandoned when Clint acquired SSR headquarters, Stark mansion and Camp Lehigh within his first ten throws and Phil declared that he was ‘too tired to fight the inevitable’, the evening was deemed to be over and they said their goodnights and headed for bed. Once Phil’s bedroom door clicked closed Clint unfolded the couch, pulled out the ridiculously fluffy purple blanket that had appeared on his third or fourth visit and tucked himself in, sharp ears listening to the quietly muffled sound of Phil running water and shuffling sheets in the next room until they gradually stopped. 

Alone in the soft dark he shook his head and chuckled quietly, imagining what Evans and Mackie would say if they could see him now, and see how he’d spent his Friday night. Once they’d gotten over _who_ he’d spent it with, he guessed with they’d have been most shocked at how normal it all was. Take-out, beer, laughs and a movie. Not exactly the ‘Friday Fuckbuddy’ shenanigans probably conjured by their perverted imaginations. 

Clint didn’t know how he would have explained to them that this was better. 

He had plenty of weird shit and adventure in his life and a bit of safe, reliable, normal was something he could be very grateful for. Especially if it meant he could hang out with a guy like Phil and have the privilege of watching him slowly unwind, take off his tie, unbend his spine and widen that tight smile, knowing he was one of the few people who got to see it. Yeah, much as he would have liked ‘Agent Barton’ to work with badass ‘Agent Coulson’ in the field again, hanging out with Phil was a pleasure all of its own and it was good to have someone to just be ‘Clint’ with. Yeah, so there was less necking and nakedness than the guys might have imagined, but Clint was okay with that.

Except…

That moment earlier, when Phil was mentioned his ‘type’, muscle, broad shoulders, someone like….who? Did he mean…maybe..? Nah. Clint shook his head on the pillow. He was projecting. Just because he found Phil the living embodiment of all hotness didn’t mean Phil thought of him like that. Because surely, if he did, if _finding_ was everything stories made it out to be, if soulmates were that vital then Phil would have said something by now. It had been almost two years. Wouldn’t he? So, yeah, nah.

Except.

There seemed to be more and more of those little moments happening recently, half sentences cut off in the middle, little abortive movements Phil sometimes made towards him as if he was going to do something and then caught himself. Eyes on the back of his neck. Nothing often. Nothing big. Nothing said. But. The space between them on the couch was always filled with electric for Clint, but what if the current was beginning to run both ways? Sometimes the urge to straight up just kiss Phil and see what happened was so massive he nearly gave in to it every time, despite the disaster that would pretty much definitely come after. But what if he _didn’t_ end up losing his kidneys to an angry Agent Coulson? What if Phil…what if he…what if… Clint groaned into his pillow. Oh, god, if he could be sure. He groaned again, closed his eyes, pulled the blanket over his head and tried to pretend the warm ball in his stomach wasn’t hope.

>>===>>

Of course, not everything was as easy as a movie night. 

“Ow, ow, shit, fuck, that fucking stings!” Clint wriggled against Phil’s hold but the hand was firm around his calf.

“Of course it stings, I’m washing out a bullet wound on your thigh. Sit still Clint! You already bled on Lola and I do not need you to bleed on my carpet. I wouldn’t have given you the painkillers if I’d known they’d make you this squirmy.”

“Sorry Phil.” Clint did his best to look contrite but the pain was sharp and the edges were bleeding out of the rest of the world so it might not have entirely worked.

“I’ll give you ‘sorry Phil’.” He rocked back on his heels with hands full of red gauze and surveyed the slowly oozing gouge. “Clint. It’s not going to stop and this dressing is too thin. It’ll need a couple of stitches. I can do them but they’ll be prettier if you go back to medical. I can get you in there somehow.”

Clint shook his head, vehemently. “No. Only a couple? You can do them. Not medical. ”

“Not medical. Why am I not surprised? You should damn well be there now. Fine. Don’t move.”

Phil moved over to a wall cabinet and took out a very well stocked first-aid kit, frowning when Clint laughed. “What? There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.” He knelt back at Clint’s side and rooted something out of the bottom of the kit. “And you’re going to be very glad of this in a minute…”

“Ow!” Clint yelped when Phil, quick as a striking snake, stabbed an ampoule of local anaesthetic into his thigh. “Fucking hell! Warn a guy!”

“Oh shush.” Phil threaded a curved needle as he chided, “You’ll live. Right. This is the nasty part. Feel free to close your eyes.”

Clint didn’t. The painkillers were doing their work and it was a surprisingly good distraction to watch Phil’s long fingers doing theirs, touching him delicately, handling the needle and thread like a pro, pressing and prodding at his muscle and… Yeah, maybe the painkillers were doing their job a bit too well because, actually, boundaries. Really, there was competence kink and then there was getting a little too interested when a friend was knuckle deep in your actual blood and given that Phil’s hand was on his _thigh_ … he cleared his throat to distract himself.

“Um. It wasn’t actually my fault this time.”

Phil frowned, but that could have been the knot he was tying. “I’d be willing to bet that’s not what Hand will say on her report.”

“Well, yeah, alright, I did leave my nest, but I couldn’t get the shot from where Hand put me. I did tell her.”

“And she told you not to move. But you did anyway and dropped right into the middle of the second team taking out their target. And almost got taken out yourself.” Snipping off the ends of the thread, Phil carefully smoothed a dressing pad over the stitches, which were just as neat as anything medical could have produced. As Clint had expected.

“I moved because I couldn’t get the shot from where I was! And I did not almost get taken out!”

Phil waggled his red-rimed fingers at Clint as he moved to the sink, “Bullet hole says otherwise.”

“Bullet _graze_ , which I would not have gotten _at all_ if Hand had _told_ me she was moving the second team. It’s not like I _expected_ to drop into the middle of a fire fight. I didn’t do it on _purpose_. If my ‘handler’ had kept me up to date on the mission parameters then I wouldn’t have even _been_ there.” Clint knew he was over-emphasising and couldn’t entirely blame the pain killers and endorphins currently flooding his system. It was just that moving had been the right call right up until the moment that it wasn’t and he really, really wanted Phil to understand that. He pushed himself up off the kitchen stool and hobbled with as much dignity as he could manage over to the couch, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. “Hand sucks.”

Phil joined him moments later. “She does not suck.” He pushed a bottle of Gatorade into Clint’s hand, “Drink that, you need to replace your electrolytes. You’re right though, she should have told you she’d moved the second team. And yes, moving your nest would have been the right call if you’d had all the facts.” He sighed and pushed another pillow under Clint’s foot to adjust his leg. “So, Hand just isn’t the handler for you.”

Clint grimaced. “You can say that again. She’s a good handler, I know she is, we just don’t gel.”

“Clint,” Phil sighed, making the name into a reprimand, “since you got your solo-cert you’ve taken on sixteen ops with ten different handlers and even though thirteen of those ops were counted successful, you’ve been wounded on six of the sixteen. Seven now I suppose. And on five you’ve received official reprimands for everything from insubordination to tardiness.”

“Woah, look at you with all the numbers.” He put one hand on his hip as best he could with one leg propped on the coffee table and summoned his very best ‘New-York-Ghetto-Queen’ voice. “Giiiirrrrrl, have you been analysing my missions?”

To Clint’s ever-lasting shock Phil mirrored the pose, pursed his lips, flicked out his fingers in such a convincing way that Clint could almost see the shoulder-length hair Phil definitely did not have, then raised a palm and drawled out, “Sweetheart, you knoooow I analyse _eeeeverybody’s_ missions…” before snapping back seamlessly, “Stop deflecting. Those are not great numbers Clint. You’d do better with a regular handler, someone who understands the way you work. You deserve better results than that.”

Clint, his brain still temporarily offline from the shock of hearing Phil call him ‘sweetheart’ spoke without thinking. “Yeah, well, maybe you should just come handle me in the field yourself. Me and you, we’d get results.”

Phil’s face went tight. “Clint, I…”

He put his head back, drugs, pain and disappointment making him suddenly woozy in a way he was happy to exaggerate. “Yeah, I know. Regs. I didn’t mean it. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find someone, Sitwell maybe. I’ll make more effort or something. It’ll be fine. Sure. No problem.” He grunted. “Man, my head. You do have _good_ drugs Phil.”

Phil reached over and pushed him gently further down into the cushions. Clint went willingly. “You take ten. I’ll cook.” He stood, paused, said “You will get this sorted you know, S.H.I.E.L.D. needs you.” And then he was gone.

Clint didn’t exactly sleep, just drifted a bit, listening to the sounds of Phil prepping food, and thinking. Phil was right, he was getting injured and disciplined too much and being shot over stupid communications failures was totally no fun. It was just, harder than he’d expected to find someone he could work with. It wasn’t a problem for most Agents, but he was a specialist and, traditionally on op specialists always had a handler. And so far, there’d been no-one who seemed right. He didn’t have an SO from the Academy he could just continue to work with like most would have, so that option was out. And of the rest? Some Agents seemed uncomfortable with him, maybe because he didn’t fit their mould, hadn’t been to the Academy and all that, some seemed to hate him right of bat, maybe for the same reasons. And even though those were definitely the minority, the other senior agents didn’t exactly inspire him. Some didn’t listen. Some didn’t talk. Some were great at their job but didn’t get his sense of humour or how he worked best. Some just plain found the bow too odd. So yeah, all he wanted was a handler who would listen to his ideas, share their own plans, laugh at his jokes when he needed to make them, let him be quiet when he needed to do that and make the best use of his skills. And of course who he could trust with his life and would trust him with theirs. It was kinda an impossible list. 

Clint huffed a tiny bitter laugh. It was such an impossible list that only a few feet away and cooking what smelled like steak was the man who he was pretty sure could tick off every single one of Clint’s boxes if only he was allowed to look at the form at all. It was almost too damn stupid to be tragic. 

Fricking stupid regs. Damn stupid _soulwords_.

Before he had time to truly wallow, Phil was back, proving that Clint’s nose was almost as good as his eyes when he laid the plate of steak down on his lap. Clint smiled at the slab of meat, then poked at the pile of wilted greens on the side. “Aw, spinach, no.”

“You lost a decent amount of blood, plenty of it in my car. You need the iron, Eat it.” Phil gave Clint a stern glare, then flicked on the TV.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom.” 

“You could have gone to medical.”

“I know, I know, I’m eating it.” He picked up his fork. “Thanks Phil. For everything. And I’m sorry about Lola. I didn’t even know it was bleeding that bad. I did pack it up myself and everything. I guess the walk opened it up again or something. I’ll get her cleaned.”

“That’s fine. I have a guy. It’s just…” he paused and put down his fork. “Why didn’t you go to medical? I get that you don’t like it, but this could have been more serious. What was it? Didn’t you want Hand to know you’d been hit?”

“Yeah, that, and…” Clint stopped, and was suddenly sure he could feel a very unwanted blush starting to rise up his throat.

“And?”

“Nothing.”

Phil was merciless. “And?” 

The flush had to be visible now, he felt quite warm. “They’d have made me stay in overnight. They always do.”

“So?”

And, well, it’s Friday.”

“Oh.” Was it his imagination or did the tips of Phil’s ears turn pink? “Friday.”

“Yes.”

“When we…”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t want…”

“To miss out on your awesome cooking?” Clint tried to cover, “No.”

Phil may or may not have been fooled. “Oh.” He looked away. “Right. Okay.”

They ate in silence, just the unwatched TV nattering away in the background, until Phil pulled out the couch bed then proclaimed that he was going to go read in his room for a bit because Clint ‘needed his rest’ and disappeared quickly through his door. Clint lay down, almost glad for once that Phil was going early. He was too exhausted to try and work out what that little ‘Oh’ might have meant. 

>>===>>

Fuck shit fuck someone was touching him, someone was touching his face, who was it, who was it, where in hell was he, who the fuck was it, why was someone touching him, someone was talking, what were they saying, what did they want, what the fuck was even happening…

Still more than half dreaming Clint flailed upwards out of sleep, grabbing the wrist of the hand being snatched away from his cheek. 

It moved fast, but he was faster and now something was being said again, not the same words as before but urgent and low, cutting through the thunder in his brain, “Clint, Clint, it’s me, it’s Phil, Clint, you’re safe, it’s just me, it’s only me, Jesus, you’ve got a grip, come on Clint, ow, dammit, wake up now, Clint, come on…”

“Phil?”

He forced his eyes open. In the slight light filtering from the bedroom he could make out a wide-eyed Phil standing over his bed, arm in his bruising grip and twisted at what looked like a painful angle as Clint forced it away from his own face. “Shit! Sorry Phil.”

“No, no, my fault.” Phil shook his head, rubbing ruefully at his wrist. “I was just coming for a glass of water, didn’t mean to wake you but, well, your blanket was down so I was…”

Clint relaxed back onto his pillows. “Tucking me in? Aw, sweet Phil.”

“Well, if that’s the reception I get don’t think I’ll be making a habit of it.”

“Sorry.”

“No, definitely my fault, I know what your reflexes are like, should have known better. You…get back to sleep. Sorry Clint. Sorry.”

He was almost at his door when Clint remembered. “Phil, did you say something? Before I woke up I mean?”

Inexplicably, Phil coloured a deep red and turned quickly into his room. “No, no, nothing. Night.”

Funny. He could have sworn he heard… never mind. He closed his eyes again, pulled the blanket back over his head and willed sleep to come back. He was almost falling over the edge of it when the thought hit him. Didn’t Phil’s room have an ensuite? With water and glasses and all that shit? It did, he was sure. So what had actually just happened? 

>>===>>

Neither of them mentioned it at breakfast. Or during the quiet Saturday morning where Phil read and Clint watched the stupid cartoons he’d rarely been able to watch as a kid, or the early afternoon where Clint did some minor yoga-ish stretching exercises to test his leg (sore and stiff, but workable) and Phil pulled out some files to work on, or even after lunch when they took one of their rare (slow) walks down the block to put Clint back on the bus across the city. Neither of them mentioned it at all. 

But that didn’t mean Clint didn’t think about it. And what it might possibly, perhaps, maybe have meant. Or not meant. Or something. Shit. He didn’t fucking know.

Fuck, life was confusing sometimes. 

Well, at least things couldn’t get any more screwed up.

>>===>>

And that was a great thought until two days later when he was woken by an urgent summons to Fury’s office. 

>>===>>


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to say it again because it will never stop being valid, thank you for all your comments and encouragement!
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one, hope you like it too.
> 
> Warning for references to violence towards minors and suicidal tendencies/thoughts plus conversation about suicide - nothing detailed or graphic but you know what you can handle. I'm pretty sure it's not as bad as that made it sound.

>>===>>

 

“Right, listen up. We have one shot at this and we cannot mess it up. You listening? Sitwell? Barton?”

Clint couldn’t say he’d spent a lot of time in the company of the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. but even he could tell that Fury was practically vibrating in his leather coat over whatever the hell this super-secret briefing had been called for at stupid o’clock in the damn morning. It had to be big. He snapped on his best attention face.

“Listening, sir.”

“You damn well better be. So. This is a small op, very small, but we are aiming for a big target. A big, clever target with almost supernatural senses, which that is why I am sending you two in, alone. Any thing noisier and we will almost certainly get made right off bat and then hell knows if we’d ever get another chance.” Fury grimaced. “Barton, I’m sending you because, despite some of your other issues, you are the best marksman we have in S.H.I.E.L.D. and this is literally a one-shot op, second chances will not be forthcoming. I am talking about not just finding a needle in a haystack but shooting the damn thing out and still being able to feed the cattle, understood? Barton, you on form?”

Clint knew that he was. ‘Other issues’ notwithstanding, his eye and his aim were the best they’d ever been. “Top form sir.”

“Good. Sitwell, you will be running the ground op, liaising with the local intelligence and most importantly keeping Agent Barton on op and his ass on target. And before you bellyache at me Sitwell, you’ve worked with him at four times and you’ve both come back alive. You’re the best he’s got and he’s the best I’ve got. You got me?”

Sitwell grimaced a little sickly (which was, frankly, offensive because Clint’s sense of humour in the field wasn’t that bad surely?), but replied smartly, “Yes sir.”

“Excellent. I will take your word for it gentlemen. And I will hold you to your word because this is the one we have been waiting for.” He leaned low across his desk to where Clint and Sitwell were sitting, almost as if afraid saying it too loud would jinx it. His eye, Clint noted, was glittering with a greedy satisfaction. “Boys, we are going after The Widow.”

Given the way Sitwell gasped and abruptly sat bolt upright and the way the air of dark excitement was rolling off Fury thick enough to cut, Clint should really have guessed how his question would go down.

But he asked it anyway.

“Who?”

The room exploded with noise as Fury roundly cursed him for a goddamn fool and Sitwell hurriedly filled him in on their target.

The Widow, or ‘Black Widow’ apparently, was an operative and assassin, Russian or possibly ex-Russian now, nobody was sure anymore, who had appeared on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar in a bad way several years before. She’d taken out two high profile Chinese diplomats prior to some particularly sensitive negotiations, leading to an extended time-period of seriously biased and unfriendly trade deals in parts of Asia. And then she stayed on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar. She, and the pronoun was all anyone was able to agree on when it came to The Widow, was essentially untrackable. Theft, violence, murder, kidnapping, seduction and blackmail all followed in her wake but she was some sort of ninja-ghost and S.H.I.E.L.D. had never been able to get a solid lead on her. Until now, when a contact had given up information about a future meeting on the West Coast, a meeting that Clint was expected to disrupt with extreme prejudice.

Just one problem with that though. “Sir,” Clint rifled through the pages of the mission pack Fury had tossed to the table, “I kinda like to get a look at a target before a mission and there’s no pictures in here.”

Fury sighed as if he’d made the world’s most obvious comment. “I know that, Barton. There never are. That is part of the problem we have with The Widow.”

“So, how…?”

“Sitwell will have comms with her contact and he will identify The Widow to us. You’ll take your cue to fire from Sitwell, and you won’t fire until he damn well tells you to. Got it?”

There really was no call for Sitwell to look so smug about that. “Got it sir.”

“Good. Now get the hell out of my office and do **not** come back without good news for me.”

Sitwell hurriedly gathered up the file and motioned quickly for Clint to head out of the door. Fury sat back down to his paperwork but raised his head when Sitwell paused in his exit.

“Something bothering you Agent?”

“Not exactly sir,” Sitwell furrowed his brow, “It’s just, Agent Coulson. He’s been after The Widow for a while now, shouldn’t this be his op? I don’t want to step on any toes.”

Fury glared. “Agent Sitwell, the deployment of your toes and other body parts is mine to arrange as I see fit. And I have arranged them on this op. You step wherever I tell you to step. Clear?”

“Absolutely sir.” 

Sitwell’s attempt to keep the swallow out of his voice failed miserably and Clint similarly failed to keep the smug smile off his face. It lasted only a second though because Fury apparently hadn’t finished. “Besides which, I need my best shot there and Coulson hasn’t worked with Barton. So Coulson’s work goes with you and his toes remain here.” He turned the glaree on Clint. “Now go and deal with The Widow.”

Clint was sure he hadn’t misinterpreted the significance of that. Phil had obviously lost a pet project because of Clint and the stupid stubborn soulwords that stopped them working together. So yeah, great. A nice hot helping of fresh guilt. Excellent. Well, he couldn’t deal with it right now. He would pop it in his go bag along with his clean underwear, the inappropriate unrequited longing he was nursing for his best friend and his newest arrowheads and go out and kill a bad lady.

>>===>>

“Barton, keep your eyes front, watch the crowd. Wait for my signal for the shot. Do not shoot without my signal. Do you copy?”

Clint, stretched out low and uncomfortable on a balcony overlooking the crowded square, gritted his teeth, “Of course I copy Sitwell. Do you want me to breathe in and out as well? Would you like to remind me to blink?” Shit. He hadn’t meant to snarl on comms (again) but Sitwell was driving him half mad.

Sitwell, for his part, was definitely stung. Clint could hear his hackles rising, “Barton, I was just…”

“I know what you were ‘just’, Sitwell. You’ve ‘just’ six times in the last two hours.” He fought his tone down to a more reasonable level. “I do know what I’m doing here.”

Sit well growled. “You’d better Barton. We can’t have this going south like that shit you pulled with Agent Hand.”

“That op did not ‘go south’!” It was so hard to be indignant while lying on your belly but Clint was in the mood to try hard, “That op came off perfectly well thank you very much.”

“Once you got out of the way of your own team” 

“Sitwell,” Clint was very much nearing the end of his tether, “I made the shot on that op and I will make the shot on this one. Now, are you going to shut up and let me settle or do you want to hand this off to the B team?” 

“You know as well as I do that the B team is fifteen miles away and off the radar.”

“Exactly.” Clint replied, smugly, which, it turned out, was a lot easier to pull off, “So please, some comm silence unless you actually have something to tell me? Barton out.”

For once it seemed Sitwell wasn’t going to push for the last word and Clint allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the static of an open channel that had been buzzing in his ear cut off and allowed the sounds of the location to filter back in. 

He relaxed and listened to the voices and traffic noises floating up from below, watched the crowd flowing round the open square spread out in front of him. A busy day, lots of people, lots of collateral damage to avoid. Watching the swirl of bodies, working out the patterns, the areas he would avoid if he were the one coming to this meeting instead of the one on the balcony, he let the colours and shapes settle his mind and drop him into that special headspace that only came with watching the target. It was a relief. Clarity, finally. He was the marksman.

A quick glance at the sun told him that it was nearing the time when their contact was supposed to be arriving so he slowly slid himself up from the floor to a lose kneeling position, stretching each leg in turn while not putting too much pressure on his injured thigh, flexing his arms as best he could without making a display of himself. The balcony was railed with wrought iron, swirled thick enough to provide some cover but not so thick he couldn’t take the shot through it and he was still visible in part. Assuming anyone knew where to look.

A stocky, short man wandered seemingly casually into the top left hand corner of the square and loitered near one of the floral displays bordering the space. Clint was sure this was who he had been waiting for. A hiss in his ear from Sitwell confirmed his suspicion. 

“Barton, eleven o’clock, red shirt, blue shorts, that’s our contact. Brace yourself for the shot.”

Which just went to show that Sitwell knew absolutely fuck all about archery. He swallowed the retort he wanted to make and just lifted his bow, holding her lightly, arrow nocked and ready. “Copy that Agent.” Brace yourself. For fuck’s sake.

Maybe twenty minutes later Sitwell gave a breath that was heavier than even his usual huffing and whispered, “Here we go.”

Sure enough, down in the square a tall, slim brunette was fluttering her way across the space to airily kiss the contact once on each cheek, European style. She was all flappy floral sundress, swinging pendants, impractical sandals and ridiculous floppy straw hat and to be honest Clint had trouble seeing how someone with such large and expressive hand gestures could ever be any kind of spy, let alone a super assassin. But Sitwell almost squeaked, “Target confirmed, yellow dress, brown hair. Your shot Barton.” so he drew back the arrow anyway.

Nock. Draw. Sight. Fix the target. See the flight path. Easy. All he had to do was release and the job would be done. He would do this for Phil. His being in Phil’s life had made so many things harder, but this he would do. He’d finish this job for Phil, make sure his prep work was useful and hopefully that would make up for some of it.

His fingers were already half off the string when the target suddenly turned and lifted her head, revealing her profile under that stupid hat for the first time and all Clint’s muscles seized as his breath left him in a whoosh that had a name in it. 

“Nadia.”

>>===>>

_He was, what twelve? or something like that. Back before what Carson had him doing was anything more than petty theft, before it really went to shit. He was in the ring, training with Trickshot like always. Trick wanted him to fire a Domitian, four arrows at once, a showy shot. Clint’s hands weren’t really big enough yet and it had been a struggle to even hold all the arrows to nock them, let alone fire and hit anything, but he thought he might actually have figured the basics out. He was bringing up his bow to show his idea when a sudden noise from the other side of the tent broke his concentration. Carson’s boys, four of them, all hauling this tiny slip of a girl towards Carson’s office, making it look like hard work. They were big guys and every one of them was sweating, one was limping, and the girl, well, wow. Hair red as hell and a tongue the devil would have been proud of, she was fighting, scratching and cursing all together and the men were just barely holding her back from whatever frantic escape she was clawing toward. Clint knew a bit about fighting despite his skininess, was handy enough for his age when pushed, but her? It was as if someone had put fire in skin. He was busy enough staring that he didn’t see the heavy blow that cracked around the side of his head, but he certainly felt it. Ears ringing and face throbbing he turned back towards Trickshot who was rubbing the smart out of the palm he’d struck Clint with. His eyes were fierce._

_“Do not distract yourself with things that are not your concern. That is not your concern. The target, the arrow and making the two meet in a way that is even mildly satisfactory, that is your concern. Do I make myself clear enough, boy?”_

_Clint didn’t rub his cheek. “Yes Sir.” He raised his bow. Drew. Fired. Drew again, until his arms were shaking and he barely remembered his own name. But he couldn’t forget the girl. He was fascinated._

>>===>>

Clint shook his head violently to clear it of the disarming rush of memory. Shit. 

“Nadia.” He breathed the name again.

Sitwell, in his ear was chanting frantically, “Take the shot Barton, take the shot. What is the issue? Take the shot Barton, she’s right there, dammit, now! Take the damn shot!” and it was a testament to his new training that he almost did, almost had the bow drawn again when she looked up. The target, still chatting away with the contact, looked up, right at his balcony, directly at him, the tiniest scowl on her face. Then her hand lifted and, in the guise of adjusting a necklace, she tapped, just once, with her index finger, directly over her heart. 

An invitation.

Well. 

Fuck that shit.

Sitwell was still yelping on the comms, apoplectic, demanding to know what the issue was when Clint spoke.

“Look. I’m sorry.” He was already breaking down his bow and casing it. He paused, thinking about how the comms log would be reviewed, who would analyse his words back at the Trisk and tried to put the real message into his voice. “Give me four days. Tell them to trust me.”

“What?” Sitwell screeched, “Why in hell would I…”

Clint groaned. “Oh fuck off Sitwell, I wasn’t talking to you.” He pulled the comm piece out of his ear and crushed it under his heel, then stared at the sad little pieces for a second, wondering if he’d crushed his future with it. Then he picked up his bow case and exited the apartment at a run, heading for street level and cover.

By the time Sitwell managed to reach the building, Clint and the target were both long gone. 

>>===>>

A rooftop across the city, in the dark. Edgy.

The knife, when it touched his neck was much colder than he’d expected. As was the voice that came from behind him. 

“This rooftop was the most logical place for you to be, considering what happened today. So you must be very stupid to actually be here.”

Clint turned, very very slowly, feeling the blade glide around his throat. Once he was facing the speaker he swallowed and tried for a smile. “You always said so Nad. You always said I was bird-brained.”

The woman’s eyes widened, black as the tight suit she was now wearing, dark under the hair that again blazed as red as he remembered, even in just moonlight. She drew back the blade just a fraction and leaned closer to peer at him and then removed it entirely. Her whole body dripped surprised caution. “Tiny Hawk?”

That time he did manage a grin. 

>>===>>

_Clint knocked lightly on the side of the circus wagon, knuckles ringing hollow on the metal plating, then stretched up to post a wrapped package through the high barred window. A soft sigh came from inside._

_“Back again boy?” her voice was quiet, soft, with a strange accent, maybe something European. Clint was no world traveller. But she wasn’t from round here. He heard the sound of the sandwich he’d delivered being unwrapped and at length a face appeared at the bars. How she held herself up like that to carry on casual conversation Clint had no idea, she looked so tiny, skin white like bone and all her colour was in that red red hair. She gazed steadily down at him. “How many nights now? You have all of the circus to look at and yet apparently I am the most interesting thing.”_

_Clint grinned back at her. “Three nights. And I’ve seen the circus before so, maybe you are.”_

_“Maybe you should be off firing your arrows Tiny Hawk. Flying on that trapeze in your glitter and sparkle. Maybe then I could get some peace.”_

_That was how it had gone the last nights too. She’d pretended to not want his company or his food when he’d first sneaked up to the wagon she’d been bundled into after Carson saw her but he knew feigned indifference when saw it and she didn’t fool him. This girl wanted someone to talk to like she wanted air. So he’d persevered, introduced himself as ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’ (What? He was twelve and she was very pretty!) and she’d laughed herself silly before christening him ‘Tiny Hawk’. She refused to use ‘Clint’ even though he’d asked, said ‘tiny’ suited his scrawny frame better. Her name, she said, was Nadia._

_“You don’t want peace, you want out. Why are you locked up anyway?”_

_There was a pause, and then she drawled, “Because they know I am dangerous. Deadly. Like a panther.”_

_“A panther?” It was Clint’s turn to scoff. “You’re too small to be a panther. Dangerous I’ll give you, maybe. Your tongue is definitely poisonous. Like a snake. Or a spider. Something tiny and full of venom.”_

_She hummed, a sound like dark satisfaction. “A spider then. It fits. A Black Widow. And one day I will bite them **all**.”_

_The last syllables were said with such relish that Clint shuddered. “Definitely deadly.” He hesitated, but his natural curiosity was too much to resist. “Why are you locked up really Nadia?” Silence. “Nadia?”_

_The white face dropped away from the bars back into the gloom and Clint felt sure that he’d blown it again. Then, very quietly, “They are taking me back.”_

_Well, that was more than he’d gotten the last two nights, but not much more. “Back where?”_

_“Where I came from. There will be a substantial reward for me, so they have locked me up. Or I would run again”_

_Clint had never heard such distain in someone who looked to be around his age. Or somewhere thereabouts. To be fair, she could be anywhere from ten to twenty, another thing she wasn’t sharing. “They want you back that bad?”_

_“They do.”_

_“Why?”_

_“You do not want to know and I do not want to talk about it.”_

_“Oh.” The silence stretched out solid as the metal wall between them and Clint figured that was probably his cue to leave. But dammit, the only place cues mattered was on the stage. Instead he settled back against the wall, making a noisy show of finding somehow comfortable to sit. “So, what shall we talk about then?”_

_Another exasperated sigh from inside the trailer and then, “You are remarkably tenacious Tiny Hawk.”_

_Clint smiled again. “I’ll have to hope that’s a good thing Nad. So, you tell me. If you could be anywhere but in this shit show, where would you be? What’s your, like, biggest dream?”_

_A scoffing noise. “You are a birdbrain Tiny Hawk. Dreams are not for people like us.”_

_“They could be. I’ll tell you one of mine…”_

_They had three weeks. Three weeks of snatched visits and talks when nobody was looking and Clint didn’t have to train. Three weeks of murmured conversations conducted in blazing sunshine as Nadia sweated inside the trailer or hammering rain while Clint soaked and shivered. Three weeks pretending to be normal children talking like normal friends, all the while telling decidedly un-normal stories about themselves. Clint did most of the talking, Nadia not being the over-sharing sort, but he gathered that she was orphaned, much like he pretty much counted himself to be but without even a Barney to look after her. She was in some sort of training school called The Red Room, a bit like him, learning shit that children shouldn’t have to learn. Fighting. Shooting. How to do as she was told. And she’d been on what she called an ‘educational trip’ when she’d taken the chance to slip her ‘teacher’s’ hold and disappear into the American south, trying to cut a new life for herself. Unfortunately for her the ‘school’ seemed to have a long reach and lots of contacts and, given that tiny, red-headed girls with European accents weren’t exactly plentiful in Texas, she’d been picked up fairly quickly and brought to Carson’s to travel with the show and be delivered back ‘where she belonged.’ It was the barest bones of a story, but it was bad enough that Clint didn’t push for more. Instinctively he steered their talk to easier things. The best food they’d ever eaten. The best sunset they’d ever seen. What they’d be if they could be anything. Clint had trouble with that one, he was still imagining that his soulmate would show up one day and point him in the right direction. He really just wanted to be useful in some vague, unformed way. But Nadia, oh, it turned out she had quite the imagination._

_“I saw the Russian Ballet rehearsing once. The Prima Ballerina, en pointe, up on her toes, all that power, all that grace and power and dedication, only focussed on creating beauty. Oh, she was something to see…” and she painted a picture of red velvet curtain, spotlights, soaring music and the applause of the audience that had Clint blinking like the limelight was shining in his eyes._

_“You could do that. I’ve seen you move, even in there. You could do that. You could do anything you wanted to.”_

_“Pfft.” She snorted, but sounded pleased anyway. “As could you Tiny Hawk.”_

_Three weeks. Three weeks of finding someone so like him and in so much the same position that he wondered if his soulwords would say ‘Tiny Hawk’ when they came through. They were so alike and he’d always wondered how having a sister would be._

_“Nad? If I could get you out of here, would you know what to do next? If I could find a key, if we could get you out? Could we get away?”_

_“That is a lot of ‘if’. But yes. We could.”_

_Three weeks, and by the end he was planning on throwing over everything he knew for her._

_Three weeks of having someone._

_Three weeks._

_And on the first day of the fourth week, when he came running through the dark with a key in his palm, the trailer was empty. He fell to his knees beside it, feeling something harden in his heart._

_Only three weeks._

>>===>>

“Tiny Hawk?” The woman on the roof repeated the name like she couldn’t believe it.

Clint still grinned. “They never told me what happened to you Nad. I didn’t expect, well,” he waved at her skintight uniform, the gun holster strapped to each thigh, the fairly deadly looking cuffs which surely did something nasty, not to mention the various pockets strapped to her belt and the knife still in her hand, “…any of this. I thought you wanted to be a dancer.”

“I did.” She said, blankly, gesturing at his uniform. “And you Tiny Hawk? I see you definitely grew up. Did all your dreams come true?”

He closed his eyes briefly, thinking about his bunk, Bobbi, Evans, Mackie, his shiny pilot’s insignia, the S.H.I.E.L.D. canteen. The firing range. Fury saying he was the best marksman he had. Phil. Oh god, always and forever Phil and the ache that gave him in his gut. His stupid grey soulwords. “Very nearly, Nad. Very nearly.”

“Then I am glad for you.” Nadia sheathed her knife somewhere at her back and stood straight. “And I am glad that S.H.I.E.L.D. sent you for me. It is good to see a friend. And I know that you won’t miss, Hawkeye.”

Clint got to his feet. “Now you use the name. And like hell I won’t miss, Nad, I’m not going…”

She cut him off, “t.”

“What?” 

“Na-t. Nat. Natasha. Romanov. I would rather die with my own name.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Clint exploded, “Nad…tasha. I’m not going to fucking shoot you!”

She cocked her head sceptically, “No? Isn’t that the mission? S.H.I.E.L.D. sent you to take out The Black Widow. So here I am. Complete your mission.”

“I can’t believe you kept that stupid nickname. And I _knew_ you were waiting for that shot, with your reputation it was far too easy. I am not going to shoot you, so you can stop asking.”

Nad… _Nat_ asha turned her back to him and walked a few steps across the roof, breathing heavily. When she turned back, her face was set. “Tiny Hawk, please. It’s time. Why do you think my contact decided to tell you about our meeting when your agency has never been able to track me before? Why do you think it was in such a stupid place in view of your very much not hidden stupid nest? You saw me ask, I know you did. You would have rescued me from that trailer if you could have and this is just another kind of rescue. Please.”

Clint frowned. “I _told_ Sitwell that balcony was a shit place to take a shot from. And suicide by S.H.I.E.L.D.? Still no. No way.”

She stalked back over to him, took his hand. “Do you want me to beg? Clint, please. I have had enough of this kind of life. There is so much red in my ledger and I can’t ever wipe it out.”

“I know that.” He wrapped his free hand around hers, cradled it. So tiny and yet so damn deadly. “My copy book isn’t exactly blot-free either. But what if you could turn the page? Balance the books a little?”

She snorted and pulled her hand back. “Because it’s that easy?”

Clint held on, squeezed carefully. “Maybe it could be, with the right help.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D? The Americans are going to save me?” she asked, scathingly “You?”

He ignored the tone, he knew how bitter hope could taste. “Well, me, sure. I’ll be there, if you’re okay with that. But I was thinking more about a guy I know. A good guy. The best. I can introduce you, if you like? But first we really have to get moving before the B team actually manage track me down. False trails don’t work forever.” He walked over to the edge of the building and swung out on to the fire escape, looking back at where she still stood still, silhouetted against the full moon like some sort of shadow woman. “Coming?”

>>===>>

Two and a half days later and they’d made it a good way back across the States towards the Trisk, were maybe half a day’s travel away. They’d worked well together, staying below S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar, making use of resources in caches Natasha seemed to have hidden across the country and Clint’s hunting skills. Walking, riding and talking, updating each other on the past years. Stealing more innocuous clothes (Clint noted the names and numbers of the stores and houses they lifted them from so he could send money back later and Natasha laughed at him), hitching rides, sneaking onto transports, they used a combination of charm and crime that carried them well. But Clint was getting pissed off.

“Jesus Nat! Why are you bringing this up again? Yes, it’s a good idea to go back to S.H.I.E.L.D., yes I’m sure about that, no I don’t think we’ll be shot on sight, no I don’t want to catch a plane to Europe. Just follow the plan! That’s why we’re on this fucking cattle train in the first place! I do not voluntarily travel in cattle shit without purpose! Trust me!”

Natasha was equally irate and getting more so with every mile that took them closer to Washington. “You? Fine. But this ‘Phil’? I don’t know him. Why should I trust him?”

Clint dragged his hand through his hair in frustration. “I am sick of that question! You trust him because I do!”

“But why? Why do you trust him?”

He’d had enough. “Because I’m his soulmate!” Clint exploded and stopped at the stunned expression on Natasha’s face.

“You made your _find_? For a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?”

“No, not quite.” He sagged back against the swaying wall of the train car, ignoring the muck plastering it. “I’m his soulmate, he’s not mine. I’m still not _matched_.”

Natasha’s tone hit a new pitch, “He’s Unrequited? You want me to give myself up to some Unrequited _moodozvon_ and you weren’t even going to tell me? What are you even doing talking to him? God in heaven Tiny Hawk, I knew you were a birdbrain but this, this is…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Natasha,” Clint snapped, “shut up it’s not like that. He’s not a bloody _vodyanoy_. He’s not going to drown me and make me a slave. All that ‘Unrequiteds are evil’ shit makes as much sense as thinking your _find_ is automatically going to make you happy. Well, you know as well as I do that that’s bullshit. I never saw a _find_ do anyone any good, did you? This is real life, not a story. Stories are for kids and we both grew up a long time ago.” He sighed, scruffed his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, “I’m telling you, Phil is a good guy. We’re friends. That’s real. You can trust him.”

She still did not look convinced. “How can you be sure?”

“Because, because...” Clint searched for a way to explain how he just knew, “because he took me to his place. No, don’t snort, it wasn’t like that. He took me home, we drank, I told him about all the shit that went down with Barney and I got so wasted and exhausted I pretty much passed out. And do you know how I woke up?”

Natasha sneered “I can guess.”.

Clint was this close to taking a swing, but not only would that result in probable concussion, she had to listen, she had to understand. “No, you really can’t. Because I woke up in his bed with a knife. In my hand. A knife Phil put there himself and he was across the room guarding the door. In his own house. He never laid a finger on me and never has, no matter how much I might want him to. He _is_ a good guy Nat, I promise. I wouldn’t take you there otherwise. I swear it.”

She was silent for a long time, and then finally nodded. “I will meet him.”

“Thank fuck,” Clint said breathing a sigh of relief, “I’d hate to think we climbed on this stink-ass train for nothing.”

He settled back against the wall and listened to the rhythmic thumping of wheels over the tracks. When Natasha spoke next, it was quietly.

“You stopped believing in soulmates then? I remember a time when the idea was important to you.”

Clint ran the hand over his face wearily, “Yeah, well. I decided to stop waiting for Destiny to come up with some massive plan for me. If I believe in anything now it’s in making my own decisions about what I want and what I get.”

“That is…very understandable.” Natasha agreed. “So, how far away are we? Half a day?”

“About that, yeah. Time enough to sleep.”

“Oh no Tiny Hawk,” she chided and even in the gloom he could see the way she was smirking at him. “It’s time enough to explain to me exactly how much you would like this ‘Phil’s’ fingers on you. You seemed quite definite on that point and it sounds interesting.”

“Oh well, you know Nat,” He went hot all over and looked at his feet, “It’s nothing really….if you saw how he looks in a suit…”

Natasha eyed him thoughtfully and then smirked, her face a mixture of surprise and glee, “You love him.”

“No, I…”

“Tiny Hawk, don’t even try. It’s written all over you. You love him.”

“Oh, shit me, Nat,” Clint groaned, “I don’t see you for years and then in three days you’re finding all my secrets again.” 

Her smirk grew wider as she settled back against the wall too. “Of course I am. Now, talk to me.”

>>===>>


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter one this time, but we need to check in with Phil again, see how the poor boy is getting on.
> 
> Another huge thank you for comments and kudos, especially you guys who repeatedly comment, damn, you don't know how important you are. If I could, I'd buy you all one of Phil's cherry-lattes and put a huge dollop of cream and sprinkles on it xxx

>>===>>

 _“Nadia_.” 

The name echoed off the walls of Fury’s office as the audio played, the shock in Clint’s voice making Phil wince a little even though he'd listened to the recording so many times already. He stiffened minutely, trying to conceal his reaction from the director. 

_“Nadia…. Look. I’m sorry…… Give me four days. Tell them to trust me………Oh fuck off Sitwell, I wasn’t talking to you.”_

And that was the gut-punch, wasn’t it? Because Phil knew exactly who Clint had been talking to, knew that Clint was well aware that he would end up reviewing these recordings and knew without a doubt that the message was meant for him. ‘ _Tell them to trust me’_. It wasn’t even a question for Phil. He just hoped Fury would trust him. He took a slow breath and schooled his face to stay blank,

“Those are the last minutes of recording before we lost comms with the op Sir. We’ve removed Sitwell’s contributions because they’re mainly shouting, so this is what we have.”

Fury sat back in his chair, arms folded and a face that could curdle milk. “And what exactly do we have Agent Coulson? Your conclusions. What did Barton do next?”

“He went AWOL Sir.” Phil didn’t let himself shudder at the term. “Given that he used a name that had nothing to do with the op, we think he recognised The Widow. We don’t know from where, but it would explain why he didn’t take the kill shot. We have to assume he went with her to locations so far unknown. The B team are attempting to track but they seem to have laid a number of false trails between them and it is proving difficult.”

“Motherfucker!” Fury slammed his fist into the desktop. "That was our one damn shot and we’ve lost it. And now we have a rogue Agent. Goddammit.” Standing, he stalked over to the window, doing his usual trick of dragging out silence with baleful staring in the hope of getting it filled. Phil steeled himself not to fall for it. Eventually, Fury turned again and fixed the stare on Phil.

“Did you know?”

Phil’s heart stopped, then hammered and to cover it he snapped. “How could I? You reassigned me away from this op yourself.” Phil carefully re-balanced his voice, neither bitter nor too defensive, “You know I don’t have anything to do with his fieldwork, sir.”

Fury just kept staring. “You’re damn right I know you don’t. But elsewhere?”

Phil swallowed minutely. “I know the Code.”

“I know you know the Code Coulson, you wrote the damn Code. That isn’t an answer.”

Silence was a tool Phil also knew how to use and he employed it just as skilfully as Fury when he needed to. It stretched out between them. Eventually Fury sighed and sat back down. 

“What would you do?”

Phil smiled tightly, his answer instant. “I would do as he asked. Give him the four days.”

“Based on your extensive acquaintance.”

“Call it a hunch.”

“Huh.” Fury snorted, “I could call it mother-fucking insubordination, but fine. Four days and not a single second more. After that, we send a retrieval team. With prejudice.”

“I’ll begin setting one up now.” Phil scooped up the transcripts and papers he’d placed on Fury’s desk, carefully not looking at the one heart-breaking photograph of Clint in place on the balcony. Which was a ridiculous place to set up a shot from if you asked him. Bloody Sitwell. “Is that everything Sir?”

“For now. Depends what happens in four days. Dismissed.”

“Yes Sir.” Phil made for the exit but, as usual, Fury had to get in the last word.

“Cheese. The Code…” 

His voice was all Nick now but it still made Phil flinch. “I know the Code.”

“We’ve established that. It might be time to revisit…”

“Sir,” Phil cut him off, “I have to lot to do to set this retrieval team up. If you don’t mind.”

Fury scowled. “And yet you’re sure we won’t need it.”

“I am.”

“Based on your ‘hunch’.”

Phil stood firm. “They don’t usually let me down.”

“Fine. Have it your way. Dismissed then.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Phil let himself out and had almost closed the door when he heard Fury call, “You’re walking a very fine line here Cheese.”

Well, damn, he knew that already.

>>===>>

Phil stopped in the canteen to grab himself a very questionable coffee and took it back to his desk. 

Well, that could have been worse. At least he wasn’t having to send the retrieval team after Clint today. 

The necessary paperwork glared at him from the top of his pile of files and folders and he forced himself to begin completing it, though the pen suddenly weighed several tonnes. It was, after all, pointless busy-work. 

The team wouldn’t be needed. 

It wouldn’t. 

Phil knew it. Clint wouldn’t just disappear, wouldn’t betray S.H.I.E.L.D. like that. He would come back with some outlandish story and probably a bullet wound or a broken limb, something like that. Though the gods alone only knew where the Widow would fit into that…

But he would come back.

He had to. There was far too much riding on it and the idea that he could lose both his soulmate and his good standing in Fury’s eye was far too much for Phil to consider. Clint would come back. 

Phil pushed the completed forms aside for delivery later.

Just four days, and then this would all be over. 

>>===>>

They were possibly the hardest four days of Phil’s life. Ever. The Trisk was abuzz with gossip about Clint’s disappearance and while nobody really spoke to Phil about it (and why would they? As far as most people knew he’d brought Clint in and then never really spoken to him again and it was widely known that Agent Coulson did not join in with gossip.) he knew that the theories abounded. They ranged from the sublime, to the totally ridiculous:

Clint had defected with The Widow for a life of crime. 

He’d been a double-agent all along. 

The Widow had seduced and killed him. 

He’d made his _find_ for her and been dragged away to _bind_ at a forced ceremony in deepest darkest Russia. 

He was being held hostage by an alien host posing as a Russian assassin. 

He was holding back The Widow from Fury to extort a promotion. 

Clint actually was the Black Widow and had gone on the run now his cover had been blown. 

They’d been _soulbonded_ years ago but she’d been brainwashed and forgotten him and now that she’d suddenly remembered they’d run away together to live on a farm and raise terrifying red-headed children. 

And they weren’t even the worst.

Each one was sillier than the last but the truth was that however daft they all hurt because Phil had no idea where or how his soulmate was and that made his _pull_ ache like a poorly healed wound. He hated feeling this helpless. Everything in him insisted that he should be out looking for Clint, should be helping his soulmate, keeping him safe, but he couldn’t. He had to wait, had to do as Clint had asked and trust him. Which he honestly did. So he waited and tried not to think too much about what Clint might be doing. Tried not to think about just how much he missed him, even in four days, or how flat his life would be without him. Without his silly jokes, daft coffees, his smile. Without movie nights and getting whipped at Monopoly. Without Clint’s insights, the sparkle that made Phil want to take him home when he never took _anyone_ home, the way he sassed at Phil in a way few others would dare. Without his quiet presence during paperwork and his grin when it was finished. Just, without.

He couldn’t manage the idea of ‘without’.

A master of compartmentalising, Phil also pushed aside any thoughts of what Fury might have been going to say about the Code. He had to. Because he hated the Code for the threat it posed to his status at S.H.I.E.L.D. and the way it kept him from his soulmate, hated it. But he needed it. Hard as it was to admit, as much as he’d bent and twisted it, Phil needed the Code.

The meetings with Clint, the Friday nights that he hadn’t been able to give up even though he should have were getting harder and harder. He was well aware that his control was slipping, that he was too often getting close to showing Clint his real feelings. Phil wasn’t stupid, he’d seen Clint’s quiet flirting and hints. There was a growing truth behind them, however fleeting and nebulous it might be, and knowing that, realising that, it had terrified him. Because maybe if Phil gave in to what had to be a crush on Clint’s part, gave in to the _pull_ and his own desires, maybe they could be happy for a while. Despite what popular myth said about being Unrequited, Phil knew he wasn’t any kind of a fairytale villain. But then Clint would still make his _find_ one day and Phil would lose everything, even their friendship. Because that was how the world worked. And he didn’t need the pain of having and then losing a love and Clint didn’t need to feel the guilt of that hurt, being caught between two choices, when one wasn’t really a choice. Phil wouldn’t do that to either of them. So the Code was his reminder, the threat that overhung and reminded him to maintain his façade, ignore the _pull_ and keep deflecting Clint back into friendship, so that when the inevitable happened he’d be able to try and keep something of what they had. It was best for both of them, the most painless way. The Code had kept them safe so far, and would keep doing it when Clint came back. 

When he came home.

>>===>>

Time had never passed so slowly. Even when Phil filled them with paperwork, training, the tacsim, ops, the hours trickled past like molasses, slow and cloying. Only a very vigorous late-night sparring session with May on the second night had helped him to find any kind of sleep and thankfully the way his lip had split when he’d misjudged one of her famous high-kicks had given him a cast iron excuse not to answer any of her well-meaning questions about how he was. He was pretty certain she knew though, if the way she’d handed his ass to him yet again the next night had been any indication. May’s way of showing she cared was always fairly physical in nature and although he now had some very colourful bruises Phil was deeply, profoundly grateful. Even if all it did was exhaust him enough to take the edge off. 

Day one, no word from Clint. 

Day two, still no word. 

Day three, nothing. 

Until, finally, it was the evening of day four. When Phil ran out of work and made his way down to the parking garage he felt the tension in the air of the Trisk as if it were an independent, living thing. The building was like an ant’s nest waiting for the poke of the stick. Almost everyone was on edge, waiting to see what would happen with ‘The Widow and The Rogue Agent’ and it showed. But not Phil. He knew what would happen. He took Lola out of her storage space and drove himself home.

>>===>>

In his apartment Phil took a shower, changed, then went back to the living room and opened the main window. Taking two beers out of the fridge he cracked them both, put them on the coffee table and sat down on the couch to wait. Less than half an hour later Clint dropped onto the window sill and slid into the room. Phil’s breath caught. Clint was a bit ragged, definitely not in his own clothes, his face was pale, his eyes shadowed and he smelled very, bovine, but he looked wonderful. _Perfect_. In the back of Phil’s mind, the _pull_ swelled until he thought his head might burst and then it eased, slotting back into place now that his soulmate was back where he belonged. 

Phil looked Clint over as in one assessing glance and tried not to feel the way his heart stuttered when he saw that Clint’s words, revealed by an ill-fitting checked shirt that was surely stolen, were still written up his forearm, as grey and illegible as they’d always been. _Unmatched_. So that was the S.H.I.E.L.D. grapevine’s most popular theories discounted, and Phil should not have felt as utterly relieved as he did. 

Nonchalantly as he could he lifted his beer and took a swallow, gesturing with the bottle at the other waiting on the table. 

“Good evening. You’re late. That one’s yours.”

Clint’s mouth turned up in a wary, weary smile though his stance was still cautious, “Phil. You’re home.”

“Of course I am.”

The smile grew wider. “You knew I’d come.”

“Of course I did.”

Joining him on the couch, Clint sank into the cushions with a grateful sigh and downed the best part of his own beer in three long swallows. “How?”

Phil couldn’t say what he really wanted to because if he started emptying his heart he’d never be able to stop. But what he said was still the absolute truth and Clint would know it. He raised an eyebrow, as if the question was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”

Clint started at him open-mouthed for a long second and then shook his head, laughing and grinned wide and bright enough to light up the whole room. He clinked his beer against Phil’s in a small salute. “Phil,” he said, his eyes positively sparkling, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

>>===>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, serious question time.
> 
> As I've said a few times, this fic is soooo much longer than I imagined it would get and I haven't quite finished it yet. That said, I do have chapter thirteen almost ready to go. 
> 
> HOWEVER 
> 
> I'm going on holiday at the end of next week and the total lack of wifi or data capacity on my laptop means I might not be able to post again until I get back in mid August. I would be able post chapter thirteen before I go but it has, erm, a less than definite ending, shall we say. So my question to you, my lovely readers, is this:
> 
> Would you prefer me to a) post thirteen like usual before I go, on the understanding that if I can't find wifi and kid-free time while I'm away you might be left hanging for a couple of weeks before anything gets resolved or b) leave the story here, where everyone is relatively okay (if a bit stupid still), and post thirteen when I get back and when I can get fourteen out after on my usual weekly-ish schedule? 
> 
> I really can't decide which to do so thought I'd just ask you opinions. Thoughts? Preferences? 
> 
> Thank you! xx


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! How are you? All your good wishes really worked because I had a wonderful holiday, played in ruined castles, paddled in the sea and ate waaayyyy too much ice-cream and generally switched off from the real world. So thanks for the very effective good vibes! And then I started a new job which has totally blown my brain to pieces so it's taken me a couple more days than I intended to get this ready for you, my apologies.
> 
> A very heartfelt and massive thank you all for your patience and for all your comments and encouragement. As always they are what keeps me going.
> 
> So, here we go. Phil had his rollercoaster back in Chapter Eight and this one is Clint's. I hope you enjoy. Chapter Thirteen, unlucky for some? You tell me x

>>===>>

“Aahhhhhh, this is the life...” 

Clint sighed luxuriously as the hot water of the shower ran down over his back and shoulders, carrying away the dirt and tension of the last four days. It was hard to admit exactly how tense he’d been. His brain had insisted that Phil would have heard the message he’d left and would have understood, that Phil would know that he was coming back, but his heart hadn’t quite been able to believe it. So when he’d seen Phil waiting on the couch with a beer just like any other Friday he’d been hit with a blast of relief and amazement that almost took him to his knees. Relief that he’d been right and amazement that someone could have that kind of faith. He didn’t feel worthy of it, but it also made him feel ten inches taller. He’d already known that he could trust that Phil would make the right call, but knowing that Phil trusted him the same way, 

God. 

His heart ached.

Bringing Nat in and introducing them had been scary too, a nervous kind of scary because they were both so important and he really, really wanted them to get along. Or at least not have one try and arrest and/or attack the other. But as soon as he’d made some tense introductions Phil had turned to him and suggested he go take a shower while they had ‘some words’. Clint had had no choice but to comply, making his way to the ensuite, his belly churning. He stuck his head out of the water flow briefly and listened. Quiet murmurings but no gunfire and no sounds of anything like fighting, which had to mean the ‘words’ were going well. He really hoped so. Back under the water he grabbed a bottle of shower gel squeezed some out, lathered up and was suddenly surrounded by the smell of Phil. The smell of second chances, hot suits and long paperwork afternoons. The smell of Friday film nights, beer and jokes. The smell of gorgeous blue eyes, tiny smiles and strong arms. The smell of home. 

Great. Now as well as his heart other parts of him were aching for entirely different reasons. He really had to get a grip.

Or not. Clint groaned and rested his head briefly against the tile wall. Bad choice of words. For fucks sake…he turned the temperature down and shuddered gratefully under the chill onslaught. Focus Clint, focus! 

Eventually under control and rinsing off, Clint shut down the water and groped blindly outside the curtain for the towel he’d hung there, almost jumping a foot in the air when it was passed to him with a mild, “Here.”

Clint yelped, “Fucking hell Phil! Are you trying to kill me?” He slung the towel tightly round his hips before he opened the curtain and stepped out to see Phil chuckling.

“You survived four days with The Black Widow. I think you can handle one small surprise.” Phil opened the door to his bedroom and walked out. “I left you some clothes on the bed. You left them weeks ago and you can’t go back to S.H.I.E.L.D. looking like a badly-dressed farmer.”

Grumbling, Clint followed, “Yeah well, Nat never tried to give me a heart attack when I was naked.” Then his brain caught up with Phil’s words. “Back to S.H.I.E.L.D.? We’re good to go back then? Me and Nat?”

“That depends.” Phil turned back to him, face suddenly all serious business. “Just tell me. Honestly. Is this a good call?”

Clint considered everything that hung on his answer, everything he stood to lose if he was wrong. But he wasn’t wrong. “Yes.”

Phil’s face instantly relaxed into his mild little smile. “Alright then. We have maybe three hours before Fury plans to send the retrieval team to find you, and I can guarantee you wouldn’t like that. Luckily I have my methods. Get dressed.” Then he left the room, leaving Clint alone, dripping wet and once again overflowing with amazement and longing.

>>===>>

Obviously, they couldn’t simply walk in to the Trisk. The arrival of a known assassin and a possible rogue Agent at the front door would have caused far too much of a stir, but Phil did indeed have his methods. They involved a bit more sloshing in wet underground tunnels to hidden ventilation grates and memorisation of unfeasibly long passcodes than Clint would have chosen for himself but the final slog through the vents was familiar enough and it was all worth it to see the way Fury twitched (not quite jumped, almost, but not quite) with surprise when he arrived at his customary early hour to find two of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most wanted sitting inside his locked office. He recovered quickly, stalking across to check the files on his desk, wordlessly keeping them waiting until he had finished, before turning and leaning against it with folded his arms.

“Agent Barton. I trust you have a damn good reason for breaking in and making water stains on my couch? And for your little surprise holiday?”

Clint jumped to attention. 

“I do Sir. I apologise for my unauthorised alteration of mission parameters, but I saw an opportunity to bring in someone you might want to meet.” He gestured grandly to Natasha who rolled to her feet with her customary slick grace. “Director Fury, meet Natasha Romanov, The Black Widow.”

Fury shot Clint a glare but his mouth twitched upwards. “Alright, cut the showboating, this is my office, not the circus.” Stepping forward he offered his hand and smiled when Natasha took it. “Ms Romanov. I imagine we have plenty to talk about.”

Natasha didn’t quite smile, but met his eye squarely. “I imagine that you are right Director.”

A tight silence followed and Clint could hardly stop himself from cheering. Considering who he was looking at, that greeting was as good as a ticker tape parade. “I’ll just, let myself out then…”

“Agent Barton.” Fury snapped out, releasing Natasha’s hand and refocusing his glare, “You will let yourself out and report immediately for debriefing.” He smiled at Clint too, but this smile had some grim glee in it, “ _You_ also have a lot to talk about and Deputy Director Hill is very eager to hear what you have to say.”

Clint’s stomach sunk into his boots. “Aw, debrief, no.” Hill was…thorough. And a tiny bit scary. He nodded to Fury and made for the door.

“One more thing Barton.” Clint stopped as Fury finally looked back at him. “I have on my desk official Retrieval Team Cancellation paperwork with your name in the ‘objective’ box, filled in and filed by one Phillip J Coulson this time yesterday. Tell me, is that motherfucker ever wrong?”

Clint swallowed, hard. “I wouldn’t know Sir.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Fury shook his head. “Stubborn bastards the pair of you. Fine. Dismissed. Try not to let the door hit you on the way out.”

He didn’t have time to be confused at that cryptic statement because, though the door didn’t hit him he almost wished it had when he came face to face with the blistering gaze of the Deputy Director. She did not look impressed. “Barton. With me. We need to have a conversation.”

Brilliant.

>>===>>

It was a long and very awkward conversation in a tiny windowless briefing room in which Clint explained his history with Natasha and his reasoning for abandoning the mission forwards, backwards and sideways until he had no idea which way was up. By the time Hill, who still looked as fresh as a daisy, straightened her papers after dragging him though the story for the eighth time he was drained, sweating and exhausted and very sure his contract with S.H.I.E.L.D. was about to be terminated. 

“Agent Barton. You have gone against nearly every principle we have for field work, you have caused a lot of consternation here, unsettled many of our Agents and cost us an inordinate amount of money on your failed op. The way you behaved is absolutely not acceptable.” Hill took a deep breath, glaring in a way she must have learned from her _soulbonded_ and Clint braced himself. “However, we do encourage initiative here in S.H.I.E.L.D. and, while if you make this a habit I can personally guarantee that you will spend the future carrying your testicles in a pretty little handbag, in this case you made a good call and secured a valuable asset for the organisation. Well done Agent Barton.”

Clint’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline and his mouth dropped open. “What?”

Hill smiled for the first time, “I said, well done Agent Barton. Well done. Don’t make a habit of it.”

What the fuck was the response to that? “Okay?”

“Now then. I have to go report our conversation to the Director and you are dismissed. Go take a shower or something, you still smell quite strongly of cow.” She rustled in her stack of papers. “And you’ll need this.” 

Clint found he was being handed in an ID badge with his own face on it. He took it gingerly, not totally convinced that it wouldn’t explode. “What is it?”

“Your new ID badge. Level Four Agents have access to more areas and this is your keycard. Don’t lose it.”

Clink blinked. “Level Four? I’m only a Level Two.” 

Hill stood and patted his arm reassuringly as she walked past him to the exit. “Not anymore. I did say we valued initiative. Good afternoon.” 

Clint stared at the little card in disbelief. Level Four. Level Four! He couldn’t wait to tell Phil. 

It wasn’t until he reached his own room that he realised neither Fury or Hill had asked him how he’d gotten Nat into the Trisk.

>>===>>

As it turned out, the promotion wasn’t the only change to come from him recruiting Natasha. Suddenly Clint found himself the focus of attention like he hadn’t seen since his time in the ring. Everyone seemed to know the story of how he had ‘brought in The Widow’ though most of them got it wrong (No, there hadn’t been alien mind control involved. No, they weren’t _soulbound_. No, he hadn’t stunned her with a mini-taser arrow from six-hundred metres. But he could have.) and Clint got plenty of kicks from the way it apparently made him equally feted and feared. 

It also made him the subject of many interested glances from starry-eyed junior agents which was flattering and funny at first and then got a bit embarrassing. So he was pleased for more than one reason when Nat finally got cleared from her own de-briefing assessment and orientation course. Something about her steely-eyed Russian glare and perfectly deadly sparring form scared away even the most dedicated glory hunters. 

From there Nat slipped neatly into his life at the Triskelion, joining him in classes, in the gym and eventually on ops. She was sickeningly quickly promoted to his Level (apparently years of super-assassin-ness counted for a lot) the two of them were sent out on training ops more and more often as a pair, which massively added to Clint’s reputation of being hard to work with as their almost telepathic connection and risk-taking style tended to freeze most handlers out. 

But, well, whatever. 

Nat was so quick, so good, so fierce and working with her pushed Clint to be even quicker and better and fiercer, so much so that they were leaving other Agents far behind. Then suddenly there was a change of focus and Fury was assigning them more and more advanced classes, more tactical and tricky trial ops and simulations on and off base, far more than Clint had ever done before, ‘to see if an idea could work’. Apparently they were going to be some sort of specialist task force, just as soon as they found a handler who could keep up, and Fury was training them relentlessly in preparation. He’d never spent so much time dangling off the end of ropes, even in the circus, and facing seemingly insurmountable odds in the tacsim was starting to become as familiar as eating breakfast. 

It was hard. 

It was good. 

Mostly.

It did feel great to be that stretched, that challenged, but on the other hand it also sucked to always be that busy and in demand. Mainly because there hadn’t been a whole lot of paperwork afternoons or free Fridays recently. He hadn’t even been able to squeeze time to introduce Nat and Phil properly. It sucked.

But, and Clint grinned hugely, if internally, at the thought, today was Friday and for once he was cut lose. Natasha was away with R&D getting some weapons upgrades, there were no ops to prep for or to write up and after his final advanced strategy class of the day finished Clint was in the vents faster than a rat up a drainpipe. 

He was actually glad to be alone. Seeing how Phil and Nat’s relationship would have developed would’ve doubtless been fascinating, but really all Clint really wanted was some time with Phil. Well, maybe in an ideal world time wasn’t all he’d want, but here and now it would do. Could he be that lucky? Quiet rustlings and tapping drifted up from the vent he’d finally reached. Apparently Lady Luck was with the dreamers today and this time his grin was all visible. 

The magnetic bolts holding up Phil’s ceiling vent were dusty but they yielded as easily as always to Cint’s fingerprint and he dropped neatly into Phil’s office with a dramatic flip that was only slightly showing-off, honest. Phil looked up, unsurprised, and Clint felt the wind knock out of him. Fuck, those eyes, he’d missed those eyes. He tried for something clever to say and, failing miserably, settled for, “Hello.”

“Hello yourself.” Phil smiled and fuck _again_ , he’d missed that too. 

Feigning coolness Clint flopped down onto what he still thought of as his spot and groaned, “Oh, I’ve missed this couch. I haven’t been here for ages.”

“Six weeks is not ages.” Phil chuckled, “but I suppose the couch has missed you too. Perils of your sudden celebrity.”

“Too many people watching. More than at the circus.” Clint agreed, trying not to wonder if it was only the couch that had missed him, “But, if you noticed, it’s Friday. And I’m free, so, erm, I wondered if you fancied….well.” Why was he suddenly feeling shy? It wasn’t like he’d never been in Phil’s office before, not like they hadn’t made plans before, but he hadn’t been able to be there for a while and maybe Phil wouldn’t…

“Indian? Beer? Monopoly?” Phil’s question interrupted his train of thought very nicely and Clint felt his face heating up. He tried desperately to control the sudden surge of desire in his belly and answer in a steady voice like a normal human. He just about managed.

“I’d love that.”

>>===>>

It took Clint far too long to dress for a simple movie night. His new Level Four quarters were great in that he got his own bathroom at last (yay, showering alone! Not enduring Mackie’s constant need to towel fight or the smell of Evan’s ridiculously fruity soap!) but the recent move meant that he knew none of his neighbouring Agents, at least not well enough to ask for fashion advice. Not that he would have asked Evans or Mackie back in his old digs either, they’d have laughed him out of the lounge. He looked repeatedly between the three favourite non-uniform t-shirts laid out on his bed totally unable to decide. Purple/tight, purple/tighter or black. With purple piping. And tight. Well, at least he definitely had a style. He very briefly considered texting Natasha but squashed the thought quickly when he imagined the sharp reply he was bound to get. Natasha was awesome, but not exactly warm and fuzzy. 

Yet. 

He’d work on her. 

But what to put on? 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

Closing his eyes Clint snatched up the first shirt he touched (purple/tight) and dragged it over his head, refusing to second guess himself any more. It was ridiculous to be getting so worked up about just going to Phil’s, he’d done it loads of times before with barely a second’s thought. Why should this time be any different? His phone beeped a warning at him and he cursed, grabbed his bag and jacket and ran. 

The bus’ usual lateness worked to Clint’s advantage for once and he just managed to slip on board before it pulled away. He claimed a window seat and tried to look out at the city going past and to ignore the tingling in his palms. He wasn’t getting worked up about visiting Phil, he really wasn’t, because that would be stupid. It was just going to be good to spend some quiet time with his friend again after six weeks of insanity, that was all. It wasn’t like the short absence had made the idea of seeing Phil feel different, more urgent, desperate, almost electric. Clint wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t going to blurt out the fact that he had missed Phil like mad and was dying to know if Phil had missed him too. He wasn’t worried that the answer might be not really. He wasn’t considering the possibility that they’d have lost their easy dynamic. And also, he wasn’t going to spend the whole night watching Phil out of the corner of his eye and making a conscious effort to hold his hands back from touching him like he was suddenly desperate to. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself. He really wasn’t. 

Clint repeated his list of ‘wasn’t-s’ the entire way there and by the time he arrived he actually almost believed them. Kinda. 

>>===>>

The door was locked when Clint arrived at Phil’s place but he ran his thumb under the concealed scanner in the handle that had long been coded to his print and pushed it open slowly. “Phil? You in?”

“Oh, hey,” Phil’s head popped up over the kitchen counter, “come in. Sorry I was just…” He waved a cloth and spray bottle vaguely in the direction of the living room.

Clint raised an eyebrow as he shut the door behind him. “You didn’t need to clean up for me.”

Phil went a little pink. “Well, it needed a bit of a wipe-down, that’s all. I’ve not had company since a certain Agent brought his deadly assassin friend over in the middle of the night so there was…dust. Quite a lot of dust actually.” He opened a cupboard and tossed the cloth in. “Anyway, the food is in the oven, the beer is chilling and today I am determined to build a thousand hotels and totally clean out your bank. Ready?”

It was impossible to hold in the grin. “Oh absolutely, you bring the samosas and I’ll bring the style.” Clint headed for the couch already feeling himself relaxing. This was good, this was familiar, this was Phil. Why had he thought tonight was going to be hard? Then he looked back and saw Phil following, plate in one hand and beers in the other, answering Clint’s grin with a wide one of his own and suddenly he was warm all over. Oh. Yeah. There was that.

>>===>>

A good two hours later both curry and Clint’s reputation as a Monopoly master were destroyed. He conceded defeat and sat back, shaking his head.

“I don’t get it. You totally cleaned me out and you didn’t even have that many properties! How did I keep landing on them?”

Phil replied, so happily smug Clint had to fight down a sudden urge to leap up and kiss the smirk off his face. “The Monopoly gods were obviously not on your side. It must be all the ritual human sacrifice I’ve been doing since you were last here. Seems to have worked.”

“I knew that dust story was just a cover for cleaning up the entrails…” Clint tried to laugh but it turned into a yawn. “Sorry!” he slurred out, mortified, “It’s just been a long week. A long few weeks.”

Phil waved the apology away with a knowing snort, “Don’t worry about it. I know first hand how Fury likes to play when he gets a new toy. I don’t think I got two hours sleep together my first week on Level Six. If you’re not exhausted now, he’ll push you until you are. But the idea of Strike Team Delta is a good one. S.H.I.E.L.D. needs a small elite team like that. How’s it going?”

Clint blinked. “You know about Strike Team Delta? Of course you do, why am I even asking.” He laughed at his own surprise. Of course Phil knew, Phil knew everything. “It’s going well I think. Nat’s good to work with. She’s not…” He broke off, realising he was about to say ‘you’ and had to change the word into a cough to cover himself, “she’s not exactly relaxing, but she’s got my back, you know? I think we make a good unit. Or we will, when we get started.”

“Problem?” Phil asked.

He made a face. “Same old, same old. Fury thinks we need a handler.”

“Well, in my experience, a third pair of eyes can only be a good thing.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they would be,” Clint agreed, “if we could find any, but nobody seems to click. We’ve been through training sims with every Agent level five and above who isn’t permanently assigned elsewhere except…” and there was that ‘you’ again and this time he almost choked on it.

The silence, for the first time Clint could remember, stretched out uncomfortably. Phil turned away to pack away the game pieces and bus the plates back to the kitchen. As he moved out of Clint’s eyeline he said, “I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

Clint felt a lead weight fall into his stomach. Because he knew he already had, that first day in the old church when this crazy badass person dropped into his life out of nowhere. The one person he wasn’t allowed to ask for. The one person who wouldn’t want to work with them. Fucking destiny had a lot to answer for.

“Are you too tired for a movie?” Phil came back round to the couch, his body language tight and awkward. “We can call it a night if…” 

“No, no.” After six weeks of no Phil Clint was not about to waste any of the time he could snatch doing something dumb like sleeping. “I’m good. If I doze off, just blanket me.”

In the end they opened up the couch bed and stretched out on it with Phil joking that he’d dragged Clint to a bed once and he didn’t think he had the strength to do it again, and that at least this way if he did fall asleep he’d be in the right place. The movie was another from Phil’s geek shelf, this time featuring unicorns and a strangely alluring devil-type bad guy as well as the ubiquitous glitter explosion, and it looked fun but the plot was lost on Clint. He was far too distracted trying not to show how pretty much sharing a bed with Phil was doing silly things to his heart and to his head.

>>===>>

Clint had no idea how he’d managed to fall asleep in that agitated state, but he woke surrounded by a glorious warmth. His head was pillowed on something firm and there was a heavy, comforting weight around him. He shifted slightly, trying to work out exactly what it was.

“Shhhhh…..” Phil’s voice whispered from somewhere above and he felt it rumble under his cheek, the weight tightening just slightly.

Oh God. 

It was Phil. He’d fallen asleep and ended up on Phil, on his damn chest; all that warmth was Phil’s. He should move, he knew he should but, fuck, it was so lovely. Just to lie here and feel the rise and fall of Phil’s breath, the solid curl of the arm lying across his shoulders, Phil’s fingers just grazing gently against his ribs. To be held. He felt like crying. It was almost too lovely. He really should move. 

Clint shifted again and Phil’s arm squeezed again, not letting him go. He started to open his eyes, to let Phil know he was awake but, “Shhhh, you’re alright, shhhhh…” whispered again and he felt Phil’s free hand lifting until there were honest to god fingers carding through his hair. Fingers. In his hair. Just gently petting, soothing. Phil’s fingers, in his hair. 

Clint was lost.

He feigned sleep for the rest of the movie just so Phil would keep holding him, wishing that it never had to end. But eventually the credit music played and Phil sighed softly. Clint felt Phil oh so slowly and oh so carefully move away and lower him down onto the couch and he went, keeping his body relaxed and limbs limp and barely had time to regret the loss of Phil’s heat before the fluffy blanket he always used was pulled up round his shoulders and he felt himself being tucked in. The gesture and the sounds of Phil locking up the apartment were so comfortingly domestic that Clint had to fist his hands in the blanket to keep from reaching out to this man who had risked so much for him, was still risking it, and just spouting all the want, longing and gratitude he was barely holding in. It was a kind of agony to lie and keep his breathing steady.

Eventually, Clint tracked Phil’s progress to his own bedroom door and waited to hear the latch shut so he could exhale, and maybe sob as quietly as he could manage. Instead, he heard Phil pause and then, in the smallest, warmest voice, say, “Goodnight, my soul.” 

Clint froze. Phil’s door clicked closed as Clint tried to remember how to breathe. 

What the fuck.

_What?_

He couldn’t possibly have just heard that.

But he had. 

He would the first to admit that when it came to bonds and relationships he really had no clue what was going on, but even _Clint_ knew that to call someone ‘my soul’ was a big deal. Possibly the biggest. It was a real old-fashioned endearment, always written into the most romantic stories, like fucking Shakespeare or Austen or something. And it was only said for the firmest, realest sort of bonds. To call someone your soul _mate_ was common, because that was just a fact, but to call them your actual _soul_ , that was something else entirely. Something deep and firm and permanent. It was like calling someone your _life_.

Clint’s whole body shuddered with the struggle to keep still so as not to alert Phil, to not draw attention to himself while his head spun. 

Shit. Him and Phil, they weren’t even _matched_ and yet he’d just heard _Phil_ say _that_ to _him_. 

In fact, now he thought about it, he’d heard it before, hadn’t he? More than once. Clint’s ear was as good as his eye and that particular rhythm of words had been said to him before. That first night when he’d spilled his guts about Barney he’d vaguely remembered something being said in the mess of Phil putting him to bed, and then again the day Phil had sewn up his thigh when he’d woken in the night because he’d heard a voice. Phil’s voice. 

Phil’s voice saying ‘Goodnight, my soul

Clint let out a long, shaky breath, hope and warmth surging through him like a tidal wave. 

Oh god. 

The implications were just…massive. Did it mean…did Phil _like_ him? Oh for fuck’s sake, he had to stop talking like a fifth grader. Did it mean…could it possibly mean… Had Phil actually wanted him as a soulmate all this time? Did Phil want him _now_? 

The clench of terror and desire in his chest was so tight it was actually physically painful.

It had to mean that he did, what else could it be? Phil didn’t say things he didn’t mean, not to him, he’d said so. 

Suddenly a hundred paperwork-filled afternoons and movie nights, a thousand looks and jokes, coffees and kind actions all swirled together in Clint’s head and he almost laughed out loud. Fuck! They’d been practically dating for months and months, how had he not noticed? It would have been a bit embarrassing for a guy named Hawkeye except the idea was so fucking thrilling he had no room to feel anything but this insane sparkling excitement. Maybe once, years ago, before Phil, before S.H.I.E.L.D., before getting his pilot’s license, before passing all those classes, before catching Fury’s eye and even before Natasha it would have terrified him, the idea of being so involved, bound, with anyone, let alone a guy as smart and competent and awesome as Phil. But not now, he’d grown, changed and suddenly he knew exactly how much because there was no terror anymore, just elation and a shuddering need

Phil wanted him. Maybe even…loved him a little? Jesus. Maybe!

Grinning wildly into the darkness Clint hugged both the blanket and the thought tightly to his chest. Was he right? He knew he loved Phil. Of course he did! He’d never said it out loud in those words, but he did, he absolutely, totally did. Did Phil feel anything like the same? Clint needed to know. He schooled his mouth into a firm line and nodded to himself. He needed a plan, to figure out what to say and then in the morning he would actually be brave and do the scariest thing he’d ever imagined and find some way of bringing up the subject with Phil. Then Phil would finally know exactly how Clint felt and hopefully would tell him exactly how much he wanted him too. Maybe this carefully constructed ‘thing’ they had going wouldn’t get ruined like Clint had always been afraid would happen. Maybe it would be awesome. 

Oh holy fucking god. Clint rolled onto his back and stared into the black, blood both singing and pounding in his ears. Thrilled and terrified, it was the best and worst he’d ever felt, all at once. Shit, it was going to be a long night.

>>===>>

In the end, Clint barely slept at all. All night he flipped crazily from plan to plan, thinking of speech after speech, working out what he could possibly say without fucking it up and sending Phil running screaming for the hills. He was still running words round and round his head when dawn started breaking through the curtains and exhaustion finally claimed him, dragging him down at last.

>>===>>

The first thing Clint noticed was the smell. Pancakes? And then the noises, little clattering noises of kitchen-stuff, pans scraping, plates being set out and Phil humming quietly. And definitely pancakes. Wrenching himself up out of the blanket he turned to look over the back of the couch into Phil’s kitchen and felt his heart swell maybe ten sizes. Phil, in his Saturday ‘uniform’ of old, faded jeans and the softest green t-shirt was quietly making breakfast like some sort of domestic god, like Clint had seen him a hundred and more times, like Clint in any way deserved to have that kind of luck. Feeling Clint’s eyes on him he looked over and smiled and Clint almost swallowed his own tongue. “Morning. Thought the smell might wake you up. Coffee’s already brewed if you want to grab a mug. Felt like pancakes, they’ll be ready in two minutes.”

The desire and excitement and nervous anticipation of the night rose in him again like a warm tide, overwhelming and carrying away every iota of doubt. This was right, he knew it was.

It was too much. Clint got up to go to the kitchen but he didn’t go to the mug cupboard. Instead he walked, slowly but unstoppably, as if drawn by a magnet, to Phil. Reaching round he took the spatula of out Phil’s hand and turned off the stove. Phil spun to face him again. “Clint? What…"

All the fancy speeches and rehearsed words disappeared completely out of Clint’s head. At that moment he could barely have recalled his own name, let alone any of the clever sentences he’d agonised over in the small dark hours. Instead, totally voiceless and shaking with nerves he reached out, carefully placed one hand on Phil’s hip, the other on the back of his neck and, trying to put everything he couldn’t say into his touch, tilted Phil’s head and kissed him.

It was heaven.

It was fireworks and the roar of the crowd, it was flying and falling and hitting the bullseye, glitter and the safety net and absolutely everything he’d longed for. For one moment Phil just melted into his arms, groaning against his lips and leaning into him with an insistent, delicious pressure that had Clint groaning himself and opening his mouth to deepen the kiss and it was just _heaven_ , for one, gorgeous, moment. And then Phil’s palms were against his chest, not grabbing but pushing and suddenly Clint was sprawled on the floor halfway across the kitchen, disorientated, panting, while over by the stove Phil was clinging to the counter and moaning, 

"No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

And now it was hell.

Clint stood despite the sudden, sharp stab of nausea that made him sick to his stomach and gasped in a breath. What had he done?

“Phil, jesus, fuck, Phil, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought…oh god, I thought…I was wrong, I’m sorry, I’d never have if I’d…shit! I should have known you wouldn’t want…”

“Don’t!” Phil snapped and Clint’s knees turned to water at his tone. He laughed, harsh and bitter, “Oh god, don’t Clint, don’t go telling me what I do and don’t want. Dammit, just don’t! Don’t be stupid. I want you, of course I want you,” He ran a hand wetly over his mouth and when it came away Clint saw it was trembling. “I have _always_ wanted you. Right from that first damn day in that damn stupid church!”

"Oh.” Clint stepped a little closer, carefully, gingerly, not quite sure if the bright hope that spiked at Phil’s admission was actually warranted. “Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it? Because it took me a bit longer but I’m right here now and I want you just as much, so…” He reached out a hand again but snatched it back again when Phil barked,

“Don’t!”

His eyes were black, not a trace of their usual sunny blue and something in them looked so broken it made Clint’s chest hurt. “Phil, why not? I don’t get it, if we both want this, why not? I’m right here and I’m your fucking soulmate aren’t I? You made your _find_ for me and I’m here and _I don’t get it, why not?_ ” The end of the question came out in a high whine Clint couldn’t control or find it in himself to be ashamed of. He just didn’t understand _why_.

"Yes, you’re my soulmate.” Phil shook his head. “But you don’t want me, not really, it’s not me.” 

“Jesus Phil,” Clint laughed tightly, disbelief colouring his voice, “enough with the self-doubt! Of course I want you! You’re gorgeous, badass, sexily competent at basically everything and you’re my _best friend_. Why the fuck wouldn’t I want you?”

Phil’s answer came out very small. “We aren’t _matched_.

Clint’s whole body flooded with relief and he huffed a surprised laugh. “Oh, jesus, is that it?” He grinned, “ I don’t care Phil! I’ve never cared about that, I never would have cared. I was never looking for a _match_ , I was just looking for…well, I guess, you. It’s fine, it’s good. I’m _your_ soulmate and that’s good enough for me. Okay?”

“No.” Phil pushed away from the stove and marched out towards the living room. Clint caught him by the arm as he passed and swung him round to face him.

“Alright, you want to be old-fashioned about it. That’s fine, I can do that.” He loosened his grip and tried for a smile though the one he managed was shaky at best. “I’ll tell you my words Phil. Right now. I’ll tell you them and you can say them and we can solve that right now.”

Phil pulled sharply away. “It doesn’t work like that!”

“It might!” Clint insisted, somehow totally sure he was right, “It would!”

“It doesn’t!” Phil stepped back, paced the apartment like he couldn’t bear to keep still. “God Clint, if it was that easy…But how much time have we spent together? How many conversations have we had? We’ve talked about everything! You probably know me better than anyone in the world and still we haven’t _matched_! If I knew your _hearttongue_ don’t you think it would have shown by now? But I don’t!"

The depth of the pain and anger in Phil’s voice was just, bewildering. Clint felt himself reacting instinctively to it, fight or flight, balling his fists, skin flushing hot. He tried to push it down, relax his hands, keep his voice even. “I don’t care! I don’t care if we’re _matched_! So ‘destiny’ doesn’t have a plan for us, so fucking what? Destiny can go fuck itself! We can make our own decisions!”

Phil stopped moving, his back to Clint. “Not about this we can’t. It’s not how it’s done.”

Clint stared, the fear-fuelled adrenaline spiking and bringing the nausea back. No. He wasn’t going to accept this, this _crap_ Phil was spouting. Not after what he’d heard last night. He couldn’t.

“No Phil. That’s not it. That is **not** the reason. That’s just…bullshit. So what is it?” 

Phil didn’t turn, just stood, breathing deep shuddering breaths that sounded like barely held-back sobbing. Clint moved a bit closer and spoke more gently. “Is it the regulations? The Code? Because I hate to break it to you, but we’ve pretty much trashed most of that already, I’ve been sleeping on your damn couch like, weekly, for forever, haven't I? The fact that we’ve never worked together is just a technicality by now. But it’s been nearly three years since your _find_ and neither of us has gone nuts so whatever the Code supposed to be protecting us from, that’s bullshit too. We can handle it. We can go to Fury, tell him this is what we both want, that we can work together with no trouble, you can talk him round…"

Phil flinched but didn’t turn. “No.”

Clint’s fists balled again. “Well then, I’ll leave S.H.I.E.L.D. The fucking _Code_ can’t touch us then. Or you can.” He was starting to babble now, the fear and anger making his words race, “Or fuck it, let’s both leave S.H.I.E.L.D., Nat will come with us, we can set up our own security company and kick ass in the private sector, we’d ace it as bodyguards, consultants, we don’t need fucking S.H.I.E.L.D….”

"I do!” It was a high, thin cry of anguish pulled from the very depths. Phil whirled to face Clint, shoulders heaving, his face a twisted mask. “I do. I have to have something left for when you leave!”

"For when I what?” Phil’s words hit Clint like a punch and he recoiled a little under their weight. “Fuck, Phil, I won’t leave you.”

"You will.” Shaking his head, Phil crumpled onto the arm of the couch, his posture gone limp and despairing in a Clint had never seen before. “One day. Today, tomorrow, ten years from now, you will. You’ll make your _find_ and you’ll leave me."

The rage rose again in Clint, a red surge and he clenched his teeth against it. “Is that what you really think of me? That I’d say all this, that I’d want you like this and then just up and run off with whichever idiot happens to say these fucking stupid _soulwords_? Damn, Phil. I thought you had more faith in me than that! I don’t want you because of some stupid words! I want you because you’re _you_! I don’t believe it’s any different for you either!”

Clint shook himself, willing himself to relax even against the strain of what he was hearing, what he had to say. His voice cracked, hoarse as he told the biggest truth he could find. “Phil, if you tell me I can stay I will _never_ leave you.”

"You will.” Phil’s reply was the tiniest thing Clint had ever heard. “You won’t be able to help it.”

"Of course I will!” Clint strode across the room and fell on his knees in front of Phil, straining his neck to see Phil’s face where he was hanging his head. “It doesn’t have to be like that! I don’t give a shit about _matching_! My Mom and Dad were _matched_ , Barney was _matched_ , it didn’t do them any good, did it? _Soulbonds_ aren’t a ticket to happiness, believe me, we have just as good a chance as anyone, better even, because we’d be choosing each other"

Phil laughed that awful, bitter laugh again. “But don’t you see that you’re just proving my point? They were bad for each other, awful, horrible _matches_ , but they stuck around anyway, Barney even to the point that it killed him. You said it yourself, you can’t fight destiny.”

Clint had never thought that he’d hear Phil, _Agent_ fucking _Coulson_ , the man who’d swung him from a grappling line and wrapped a goddamned bomb in his jacket without even testing it first sound resigned about anything. But this, this sounded like giving up and it terrified Clint. “That wasn’t fucking destiny! That was just bad choices on top of a bad life on top of bad fucking luck! That isn’t us. It isn’t me! I’m not some mindless idiot, slave to some fucking scribble! Phil please…I won’t”

"You will” Phil said, simply, like it was the only possible truth in the world and Clint wanted to shake him for it, “One day, you’ll _find_ , you’ll feel the _pull_ , it won’t be for me and there won’t be anything on this earth you’ll want more. Believe me, I know.”

The depth of hurt in that admission rocked Clint back on his heels. Fuck! Phil _had_ wanted him all this time, been hurting all this time, over every paperwork date and movie night, and fuck, even while he and _Bobbi_ … and Phil had never said anything, never twitched, never even one fucking word! The guilt threatened to eat Clint whole. He thought he might throw up. “Jesus Phil, I didn’t…”

Phil’s head sagged. “I know Clint. I know you didn’t. And now we’re friends, and that’s been one of the best things in my life. I know when your _find_ happens it’ll hurt, but as friends I hope we can come back from this and salvage some of what we have now.” He took a deep breath and blurted, almost pleading “But don’t, please, god, _don’t give me a taste of anything more when I can’t keep it_. I can’t do it, I just can’t. ” He made to stand, shaking his head, “This is all my fault, we're both going to get hurt here. I should have followed my own rules.”

Clint surged forward and grabbed Phil’s hand, keeping him still. “No, no you shouldn’t! If you, if we had, had we wouldn’t have had any of this! And you _can_ keep it, me, you can keep anything you want. This is already so much more than fucking _friends_ Phil and we both know it! I know how I feel and there is nothing that could take me away from you, no words, no _pull_ , nothing. And even if there was, I’d risk it. I’m not going to be afraid any more. For you, you’re worth it, I’d risk it.”

He used his other hand to lift Phil’s chin, make him meet his eyes. “Phil, I heard you last night, I heard what you said.”

Phil screwed his eyes shut. “Don’t.”

“But I heard you. I _heard_ you, you said,” he paused and licked at his dry lips, “, you said, ‘Goodnight, my soul’. Phil, you called me your _soul_.” He could barely say it. How was it only a few hours ago that those words had made him so fucking happy?

Phil’s whole body shuddered. “And you _are_. But I _can’t_.”

Clint was begging now and he didn’t care. “You love me.”

The answer was barely a whisper. “I know.” 

Clint squeezed his hand. “And Phil, I l…”

“Don’t.” Phil’s eyes shot open and he snatched back his hand, suddenly standing again, manoeuvring around the couch and backing away. “Please, god Clint, don’t, please….”

Clint stood too and made to follow but Phil put out a raised palm with such force he took a step back instead.

“Don’t!” Phil had backed up as far as the door, hitting it with a clunk and then scrabbling at the handle when he realised what he’d reached. “Don’t. Just, don’t make this harder."

“Phil,” Clint’s voice was shaking, hell, his whole body was shaking with the effort of not just grabbing Phil and rattling some sense into him, what the fuck, how the fuck was this going so wrong? “Phil you’re just scared, I’m scared, fuck, this _is_ scary! But you said it, you said more than anything on earth and I know what you mean, I do, I really do. Come, on, you and me, we can…”

“No.” The word dropped heavy and final, a stone down a well. Phil opened the door and stepped out, eyes never leaving Clint. “No. Clint, for both of us. I just…I can’t.”

And then the door shut and Phil was gone. Clint stumbled towards the door, meaning to follow, to talk some fucking sense into him, but the floor seemed to be made of marshmallow, his feet couldn’t get a purchase and his knees folded under him landing him on his ass as the world spun. He crumpled into a small, shaking ball. “Shit,” he managed to choke out, and then “Phil” before the tears came, burning his eyes as they fell unnoticed.

On the floor, in the middle of the living room of the man he loved, the man who had just left him, who didn’t believe in the way Clint loved him, with the smell of scorched coffee and half-cooked pancakes tainting the air, Clint just folded over, head in his hands. He’d never felt so alone in all his life.

>>===>>


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I really want to apologise. You were all so awesome about my holiday hiatus and I really hoped to get back to weekly updates and this chapter is so late! You see, it's the school holidays here and as much as I love my husband and kids having them all with me every second of every day whenever I'm not at work (and I am at work A LOT, totally underestimated this new job!) is totally cutting in to my writing time. So I'm very sorry to have left you hanging after the angst of Chapter 13, I know you'd like to see these idiots sorted out as much as I would! Your patience is much appreciated.
> 
> As are all your amazingly wonderful comments. The response to the last chapter was just mind blowing and as always, thank you!
> 
> Anyway, here we go, Chapter 14. Just a minor warning for referenced off-stage character death (honestly, its miniscule) and minor harm to animals (not as bad as that makes it sound and not graphic in the slightest) but otherwise, it's all yours. I'd add warnings for sheer bull-headed idiocy, but you're expecting that by now, yes? Enjoy x

>>===>>

 

Phil arrived on the sidewalk before he even had chance to process the fact that he’d left. His breathing came in ragged gasps and he was trembling head to toe, but he barely noticed. All he could see was the look in Clint’s eyes as he’d closed the door, that incredulous, disbelieving, hurt look, and it made bile rise in his throat. Dammit. He took a sudden step back towards the building then just as suddenly turned on his heel.

He should go back up.

No he shouldn’t. 

It was still early enough for the street to be empty and thank fuck for that because somehow he’d walked out in just his bare feet, and really, he didn’t need any staring or, god forbid, well-meaning neighbours asking if he was okay. He wasn’t.

He should go back up.

No he shouldn’t.

The gods were kind. He’d driven home in Lola last night because the thought of seeing Clint after so long had sparked the kind of excitement that needed cherry-red paint and the contained roar of a powerful engine and thank fuck for that because while the motor-pool hybrids needed keys, his baby Lola knew who she belonged to. Phil sped down the street and touched the print scanner concealed in her bodywork, relief spiking when the locks popped. Yanking the door open he crashed into the driver’s seat and kicked-off the emergency ignition, stabbing his personal code into her keypad with shaking fingers.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. 

He should go back up.

No he shouldn’t.

Lola’s engine growled smoothly into life but Phil couldn’t seem to make his hands put her into gear. Instead, they gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled, as if clinging to some kind of life raft. Fuck. He lowered his head down onto them, tried to calm his breathing. 

Clint had kissed him. 

Against everything he’d ever really expected or imagined Clint had kissed him. And, oh jesus, what a kiss. Phil’s whole body shuddered as the memory of Clint’s mouth on his punched viscerally back into life. Clint had practically crushed them together, holding Phil with hands so firm and hot he could still feel the imprint on his hip where they’d seared though his shirt; and his lips, damn, his lips had been so soft, a little chapped, a little dry maybe but so soft, opening under his as Clint had swallowed his moan, the moan he hadn’t meant to make but couldn’t have held back if his life had depended on it. The taste of the sound Clint had made in reply, the heat, the feel of Clint’s body against him, the sheer heady rush of want… Phil drew in a juddering breath. As first kisses went it had been pretty much perfect. Everything he could have asked for.

Except that it should never have happened at all.

Phil sat, locked in an internal battle that showed only in the way his fingers stayed clamped to the wheel. His _pull_ screamed at him, demanded that he go back and find his soulmate and fall to his knees, ask forgiveness, erase that bewildered pain from Clint’s face but all his logic yelled equally loudly that he’d done the right thing, that a little pain now was better than a whole mess of pain down the line, and his brain flipped wildly from one to the other, stunned into inaction.

He should go back up.

No, he shouldn’t.

A high, tinkly chime cut through the clamour in his head. His phone, slipped unthinkingly into his jeans after he’d checked the weather while dressing, thinking that perhaps they’d take one of their walks after breakfast. Phil huffed bitterly as he pulled it free of his back pocket, because that plan had gone so well, hadn't it? Thumbing on the screen he bit his lip. He was sure he’d never given Clint his number, had never needed to, but who else could it be?

_You’re wrong, I know you’re wrong. It doesn’t have to be like that._

Phil was still staring at it when the second message came through,

_Come back up Phil, please, come back up._

A sudden terror that Clint might come down and find him raced though Phil and left him shuddering cold all over. He couldn’t, could **not** see Clint now. Could not have that conversation again. The first time had been horrifying enough and a second would probably kill him. Neither of them needed that kind of pain.

Dropping the phone Phil shifted Lola into gear, pulled away from the kerb, and drove away from his apartment, bare feet and all. 

>>===>>

There was little traffic on the roads at that time of the morning, which was a mercy because Phil wasn’t concentrating the drive at all. Lola wove her way in and out of the city’s intersections and stop signs almost as if on autopilot while Phil cursed himself soundly for a fool and an idiot. This was all his _fault._ He should never have let things go this far, he should never have let Clint into his office or even spoken to him, shouldn’t have let him into his life and certainly shouldn’t have fallen in love with him. This was his mess and now he was drowning in it.

His phone kept chiming:

_Come back, please come back. Don’t go like this._

He definitely shouldn’t have told Clint he loved him. Even if he hadn’t used those exact words that had always been the meaning behind his stupid ‘goodnight’ ritual, hadn’t it? And on that note, why hadn’t he known Clint was awake? How had he not seen that? At the time it had felt so good to say the words out loud, to give Clint the name he deserved, even if he never heard it, and to ease the demand of the _pull,_ but he should have kept his mouth shut, his door shut, his damn life shut because now it was all in ruins and he had no idea if he’d ever be able to rebuild.

_Phil, this is real, it is, come back._

He was going to say he loves you too…Phil’s treacherous thoughts decided to speak up but he crushed them down relentlessly because he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t think of that. Couldn’t imagine Clint saying the words he longed for, _ached_ for, but which couldn’t really belong to him.

_I’m not going to chase you, doubt I’d ever find out if you’re deciding to hide from me, but don’t please don’t. Come back._

Phil accelerated. Distance. That was what he needed now, what they needed, some distance. Distance to escape the heat of the moment, to let them both calm down, to give Clint time to realise that this was for the best. It hurt, _jesusfuckinggod_ it hurt, but it was for the best. For both of them.

_I’ll wait. Come back._

It was for the best. It was.

>>===>>

Pulling into the underground garage back at the Trisk, Phil yanked Lola into park and hurled himself into Fury’s private elevator. He’d never used his emergency access code before but it worked perfectly, lifting him smoothly into the Director’s apartment. His phone chimed again as the elevator stopped, but he ignored it. The doors slid open onto Fury’s living room and Phil was greeted by the vision of the man himself striding towards him in pyjamas, dressing gown flapping out behind him as imposingly as his leather coat, face like thunder. Deputy Director Maria Hill looked up from one of the sofas, startled, coffee in hand, feet up, reading the morning paper, so much the perfect vision of domestic, _soulbound_ togetherness that Phil could have screamed. 

His attention snapped back when Fury spoke,

“Coulson, there had better be a good mother-fucking reason for you to be banging on my door at ass-crack o’clock on a rare at-home-mother-fucking-Saturday morning. We’ve had no breakfast and I’m only on my second cup of coffee, so this had better be good…” he broke off, taking Phil’s dishevelled appearance, red cheeks, wild eyes, bare feet, “Damn Cheese, what happened?”

Phil pushed past him into the room bright with the morning sun coming through copious glass windows. He winced a little, the light stinging. “I need an op.”

Fury’s eye widened in surprise. “What?”

Phil straightened his back, standing in an uneasy parade rest though he felt like pacing the room and throwing things. “I need an op, Nick. Something. Anything. Just…away from here.”

Now the eye narrowed. “And can I ask why?”

“It’s personal.”

Fury glowered. “The fuck it is Phil, anyone interrupting my miraculously free Saturday does not get to have ‘personal’. If you ‘need’ an op then I ‘need’ to know why.”

Phil returned the glower as good as he got, “I said personal.”

“And I said, tell me.” Fury folded his arms and stared him down.

“Damn it Nick!” Phil exploded, “You have to give me an op. I am…I am… _this fucking close_ to breaking the Soulmate Code and I need you to find me somewhere else to be! I need an op!”

“The Code?” Fury raised an eyebrow. “Barton?”

“Who else?” Phil snapped, and then slumped, “Nick, find me an op, I’m begging you. As my friend, not my Director, give me something useful to do and make it be not here.”

“Cheese, is this your best plan? Maybe we should…”

“Nick!” Hill walked over, put a gentle hand on Phil’s arm, a spot of warmth through the cold. “Stop it. Look at the state of him.” She turned to Phil. “Are you sure this is the thing to do? Leaving, I mean.” Phil nodded numbly. “Then it’s simple. Give him Portland.”

Fury barked, “We are not ready to move on Portland!”

“We can be.” Hill moved to Fury’s side, hand now on his arm, “Sitwell is already there, I’m sure he’d appreciate Phil’s input. And sometimes,” her tone became heavy, laden, but Phil had no idea what with, “sometimes you have to let people work things out for themselves. Understand?”

Surely Phil’s eyes were playing tricks, but for a second it looked like Fury actually pouted. “But Phil…”

“Is one of our best Agents.” Hill interrupted smoothly and firmly. “We can trust he can work this out on his own. Yes?”

Fury gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

Hill smiled and squeezed Fury’s arm reassuringly and Phil swallowed down his renewed jealous anger at their easy _bond_. “Then it’s settled.” She looked back at Phil. “We have an op in Portland. I’ll have a briefing packet sent down to your office and a quinjet ready in an half an hour. Alright?”

“Maria. Thank you.” Phil could have dropped with the mix of relief and shame that filled his gut, the continued screaming of the _pull._

No. 

Distance. 

“That’ll work.”

“Then take a shower Cheese, you look like shit.” Fury still looked thunderous, but concern bled into his tone. “You have everything you need?”

Phil thought of his wardrobe of suits, his worn-in shoes, his favourite sunglasses and handguns, all at his apartment. Home. 

Where Clint might still be, waiting. 

No. 

There was a spare suit hanging in his office, shoes and a go-bag in Lola’s trunk and he had a S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card tucked away in his desk for emergencies. It would do.

“I’ll be fine.” He hoped very much that it was a valid prediction of the future and not just a phrase.

>>===>>

_Ping_

Phil, buried deep in the op briefing packet, startled back into awareness as his phone chimed again, for what had to be the tenth time since the Quinjet had taken off. He thumbed it on.

_An op, Phil? Now? Really?_

Finally, Clint’s messages were starting to sound a little pissy. Phil breathed hard against the nauseous guilt and hoped that was a good thing. Maybe he would be angry enough to realise Phil was right, they should stay just friends.

_Fine. I’ll wait. I’ll be here. I’m not giving up._

Or maybe not. Phil, aware the pilot could hear him, kept his groan internal. He had to hold his resolve, it was for the best.

If he closed his eyes, images of Clint flicked constantly through his head; Clint’s laugh that first day behind the Virgin statue, the way he grinned whenever Phil’s game piece landed on his hotels, the red cheeks that day Phil had caught him with Bobbi, his shoulders in that damn tac suit, the way he slept with one hand flung over his head, the hollow look in his eyes that morning as Phil had left…picture after picture in a seemingly endless parade of heart-stopping highs and lows that almost to sent him to the pilot to demand a change of course. 

Phil opened his eyes. It had to stop. He snapped open his sunglasses and slid them on, pushing the images down, away. He had an op to concentrate on now. Reaching for Agent Coulson Phil dropped gratefully into his office persona. Time to go to work.

>>===>>

The Portland team met him at the airfield. “Agent Sitwell,” Phil greeted his colleague with a handshake as they climbed into the waiting car, “Marcus Daniels. Give me the sitrep.”

“Sir,” Sitwell nodded, “What we know is little enough and most of it would have been in your briefing packet. He was a lab tech working in some physics place on something called Darkforce Energy, trying to harness it. Something went wrong…”

“As it does,” Phil interrupted wryly

“As it always, inevitably, does,” Sitwell agreed, “You’d think that science idiots would stop messing with weird types of evil radiation, but noooo. Anyway. The lab blew up, Daniels was in there and got exposed to this Darkforce radiation, absorbed it somehow. He seemed fine, went to hospital but they only recorded normal vitals etc. so they sent him home. Only later does he develop his…‘talent’.

“Which is?”

“We’re not totally sure sir. It seems he can absorb energy from any source. Electric, heat, even sound. He came onto our radar when the town started having unusual and unexplained blackouts and he constantly showed on up CCTV footage as in the area just before the lights went out.”

Phil frowned. “From the packet I got the impression we didn’t think he was dangerous.”

“We didn’t. Until recently we’ve just been shadowing him to see how these powers develop, how long they’ll last. See if he needs to be taken in, or taken out. Pretty dull job, to be honest. Observation was undecided. He mainly seemed to be playing with what he could do, you know, turning lights on and off, cutting out the radio, setting and then putting out small fires, that kind of thing. Messing about with no evidence of malicious intention. But then, last week, this started.”

Sitwell handed over a tablet playing grainy footage that showed a man, apparently Daniels, in an alley, surrounded by cats. He had a bowl at his feet and was scooping food into it out of a can. Phil looked at Sitwell. “He feeds strays? That’s why you think he’s dangerous?”

Sitwell shook his head. “Watch.”

On the screen, Daniels reached out a hand, petting some of the strays who were so engrossed in the food they didn’t seem to notice. Then his hand lingered over one cat in particular and suddenly it crumpled to the floor, not moving again. Phil paused the footage, eyebrow raised. “He can absorb bodily energy as well?”

“Seems so. We’ve found an increasing number of dead strays around the place since this video was taken. We think he’s…practising.”

Phil frowned. “And if he’s willing to practise on animals, it won’t be long before he’s willing to move it over to people. Fine. We need to extract him, get him to The Sandbox, or even The Fridge. Ideas?”

Sitwell shook his head again. “Nothing concrete. R&D are working on it but he’s been in a few bar fights while we’ve been watching and nobody ever manages to land a punch, they always fall short. Even projectiles don’t it him. We think he’s absorbing the kinetic energy and that makes traditional weapons and combat methods useless. We don’t know how to hit him. R&D are trialling ways to remove the energy he absorbs, or stop him from taking it in the first place, but none of the simulations work so far.”

“Interesting.” Phil sat silently for a moment, turning the problem over in his mind. It was a good one, complex, meaty and, importantly it blotted out the image of Clint’s face. Some of it. “Maybe we need another approach. He’s like a vacuum, yes? Sucks energy into himself like dust into the bag? So maybe, instead of stopping him, we need to, as it were, fill his bag instead, overload him? Stop the vacuum from working?”

Sitwell stared. “Jesus, Phil, there may actually be an advantage to your obsession dark age technology. I have a Dyson and I would never have thought of that analogy. I’ll call the R&D guys.”

One phone call later and Sitwell confirmed that the R&D department hadn’t in fact thought of that approach, and yes sir, they would look into it now sir, though it might be a few days until they had any results sir. Sitwell admonished them to get the hell on with it and then hung up, chuckling. “They seem very excited. I should have known. Really, it’s almost annoying, we’ve been watching this guy for weeks with nothing much to show for it, you’re here five minutes and already a solution.”

Phil frowned. “Possible solution. Don’t get too excited just yet. And we still would need a way to get Daniels where we want him, he doesn’t seem the type to just wander willingly into a set-up. What does he want?”

At that Sitwell smiled. “Now there, I can help.” He reached forward and buzzed the intercom to the driver. “Change direction, Agent Coulson needs to meet Ms Nathan.”

>>===>>

Ms Nathan, Audrey, turned out to be a bright woman around Phil’s age, a cellist in the Portland Philharmonic who, it appeared, had caught Daniels’ eye. Phil watched her as she told him her side of the story and was impressed. She was obviously rattled by her involvement in this strange situation but still her recall was clear, concise and steady. It was admirable.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap as she talked. “It started a long time ago, years really, now I think about it. It wasn’t much to begin with, just a few flowers after a performance, the odd card, all with Marcus Daniels’ name on. I didn’t think anything of it, I mean, I’m hardly a celebrity but we do get them occasionally, the flowers, the dedicated followers. They’re usually more interested in the music than anything else. So I didn’t worry at first. A couple of the cards went so far as asking if I’d meet him, get coffee or something, but I’m a happily _soulbound_ woman.” Here she faltered for the first time, just a little, “I mean was…was a happily _soulbound_ woman.”

Her finger ghosted up and Phil’s eyes followed as she traced the soulwords spiralling gracefully on her cheek, the sunny yellow _‘Miss, would you try first chair?’_ neatly crossed through with the thin black line that signified a soulmate _found, bound_ and then lost. She saw Phil looking and smiled gently. “David was the conductor of my college orchestra. We met my first week there and that was it, _find, bind,_ happily ever after. Almost. Cancer. Early last year.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine. It was…quick.” She drew in a quick breath and refocused. “Anyway. Obviously, I never followed any of it up with Daniels and it all stopped while David was sick and I didn’t play. But I went back, about six months ago and at first nothing. But after my second performance there were the flowers again with his name on, and a card. And it kept happening. Then recently he started showing up at the stage door, asking to see me. The management never let him in but he kept coming. Then he started turning up at rehearsals too, waiting outside, following me down the block. He was always very nice, very pleasant and complimentary but still, I didn’t like it. I told him that, but he just kept coming. The cards turned into letters, long, rambling things. He calls me this thing, it sound like it should be nice, but I’ll tell you Agent Coulson, it gives me the shivers. He says I’m his ‘only light in the darkness.’” She visibly flinched. “It makes me very uncomfortable. Agent Sitwell said he believes Daniels might be dangerous, and I’m grateful for the protection he’s arranged for me. Anything I can do to help, you only need to ask.”

“Thank you Ms Nathan,” Phil said, standing, “I hope we won’t need to call on you, but thank you. We’ll see ourselves out.”

She walked them to the door anyway. “I mean it, Agent Coulson. Daniels needs help. So, anything I can do. And it’s Audrey.”

Phil nodded.

Back in the car Sitwell looked at Phil over the rim of his glasses. Phil shook his head. “No, not yet. But there’s leverage there, I’ll think of something.”

When they finally reached the base S.H.I.E.L.D. was running in Portland Phil went straight to his assigned quarters and fell gratefully into the bed. He was exhausted. It had been the longest of long days and all he wanted to do was sleep. Unfortunately, in the ringing quiet his brain had other ideas and decided to replay the conversation (argument? discussion? utter disaster? What would be the right word for something so thoroughly earth-shattering?) he’d had with Clint that morning, god, only that morning, in minute detail. From the heat of the stove to the feel of the cold sidewalk under his bare soles, he saw each and every moment over and over again in glorious Technicolor. Unrelenting and merciless in its detail the replay went round and round and round until he was curled under the blankets in a shaking ball of misery, screwing up his eyes against the image of Clint down on his knees, so earnest, so bewildered, and against the tears that wanted to swamp him. 

Eventually he gave up, wiped his eyes, put the light back on and reached for the Daniels file again. Maybe work would keep the agony out.

>>===>>

Phil woke to the sound of his phone chiming, seconds before his customary alarm went off.

_Wakey wakey rise and shine, wherever you are. I’m still here, still waiting._

Phil deleted the message, ignoring the way it made his pull spark and his guts clench to imagine Clint still waiting for him. He felt like a bastard. Distance. He dressed quickly and headed down to morning briefing. He couldn’t stomach breakfast.

“I’ve had a brainwave, sir,” Sitwell said, uncharacteristically animated for the time of day, “I know how we can get him.”

Phil steepled his fingers. “Very good Agent. Do share with the class.”

“Audrey Nathan needs a new boyfriend.” Sitwell sounded so pleased with himself, especially when Phil’s mouth dropped open.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Audrey Nathan,” Sitwell sat forward, obviously very enthused by his plan. “Daniels is obsessed with her but hasn’t made any sort of aggressive move, not yet, but these stalker types always do. We need to draw him out, and if he thinks she’s got a new boyfriend, if he thinks he’s losing her, I think that will speed things up. So. We set her up with a few dates, places we know he’s watched her before and then, when R&D sort out the method of stopping him, which they say will be four days, max, we put her somewhere conspicuously ‘alone’ and wait for him to walk into our trap. Easy.”

Phil kept his face blank. “You want us to use her as bait?”

“He needs to be taken out, sir. This is the easiest way to do it.”

Phil thought for a moment and then nodded. “Agreed. We’ll contact her and start today. You’re sure Ms Nathan will be okay with this plan?”

“She will. She’s strong.” Sitwell smirked. “And she’ll have you watching her six.”

“Me?” Phil twitched in surprise and Sitwell’s smirk grew.

“Best fit Phil. You’ve only just arrived, Daniels hasn’t seen you and even if he had nobody ever notices you out of the suit. It’s one of your superpowers.”

He couldn’t fault the logic. Damn. 

Playing the happy new love interest while his insides were being eaten up with loss and guilt. Sure, that would be simple.

>>===>>

In the end it wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. Audrey ‘picked him up from the airport’ that same afternoon and they went for coffee. The next day, a sightseeing tour and dinner. And, yes, it wasn’t bad. Audrey was smart, funny, surprisingly calm considering the situation and Phil realised he didn’t really have to fake enjoying her company. Instead he found himself genuinely drawn to her sunny energy. She was pretty, smiled a lot, talked even more and Phil was surprised how easy it was. Just to spend time with an attractive woman, not having to hide, to catch buses or code alarms because someone might be watching. It was…nice. It wasn’t real, he wasn’t even using his real name, let alone his real backstory and there was an energy absorbing maniac on the loose, but it was nice all the same. 

He deleted Clint’s daily messages without answering.

The morning after their third ‘date’ the night-watch team reported a very unusual number of dead strays dotted around Daniels’ usual haunts, leading them to believe that Daniels had gotten wind of Audrey’s new ‘relationship’. It coincided nicely with the R&D team completing their ‘overload’ device and Phil decided it was time to set the trap. 

The sting went simply enough. Phil walked Audrey to her rehearsal room and made sure to bid her a conspicuously affectionate goodbye at the door. Daniels behaved exactly as they’d suspected, approaching Audrey as she was playing on the stage and walking right into the centre of R and D’s four new beacons, designed to bombard him with light energy. It was harmless to everyone else thanks to their S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sunglasses but far too much for his system and overloaded him in seconds. When he collapsed, Sitwell and the extraction team rushed to subdue and cuff him, while Phil made his way to Audrey. She was hunched over her cello, eyes squeezed tight shut and the placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Ms Nathan? Audrey? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She raised her head slowly, “Is it over?”

Phil nodded. “It’s over. Daniels will be taken to one of our secure facilities and he won’t bother you again. You have my guarantee.” He took her hand, helping her to balance her instrument and stand. “Thank you for everything. You were, very helpful. One of our Agents will make sure you get home safely, but, if you’ll excuse me, I have a prisoner to accompany.”

He made to move off the stage to where Daniels was being held down by the doors, but Audrey stopped him.

“Agent Coulson, I was wondering, would you like to come out for a drink with me?”

Phil startled, “Again? But Daniels is in custody.” Down by the doors Sitwell was smirking again, clearly listening in.

Audrey’s laugh rang high and clear, “I mean, would _you_ like to have a drink with me, outside this mess. Just as Audrey and….” She trailed off deliberately.

“Phil.” he supplied.

“Audrey and Phil. If you like. If you’ll be back this way once he’s taken care of.”

Phil stared at her for a moment, pretty, smart, funny, talented, a genuinely lovely woman, everything he should want and would actually be allowed to have. 

He pushed away the image of Clint that beat behind his eyes, did not think about blonde hair, blue eyes, the warmth and weight of Clint sleeping on his chest. Pushed away the way the _pull_ screamed _wrongness_ at the very idea. He couldn’t, wouldn’t think about Clint now, not with Audrey smiling in front of him, he wasn’t that kind of a bastard. And besides, he’d let Clint go.

Instead, he nodded. “I think… I’d like that.”

She smiled happily. “Great. Friday?”

Phil’s heart seized as if crushed by a vice. “No, not Friday. I…might not be back.” He swallowed hard, concentrated. “Sunday afternoon?”

“Sunday sounds good. Paulie’s Bar? Four? See you there.”

Phil nodded and walked down to where Sitwell was waiting, ignoring his grin. He wondered what the hell he was doing.

>>===>>

_Ping_

Waking on a Quinjet to the sound of his phone was getting to be a disruptive habit. Phil pulled himself back to awareness and flicked on the screen.

_The gossip is your op went well. Will you be back soon? I’m still here. I’m still waiting._

He couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. Clint had to be free to get on with his life, make his _find_ , find his happiness without him in the way and Phil should concentrate on what he could have, could keep. It still hurt, ached like he couldn’t quite breathe but surely, surely, it was still for the best. He closed his eyes even as he deleted the message.

The next day was a whirlwind of flight, debriefings and paperwork. First he flew with Sitwell and Daniels to The Sandbox where he answered innumerable questions about science he barely understood before finally being allowed to sign the prisoner over. Then it was back to The Triskellion, which set his heart beating fast but as it was unlikely that Clint would be waiting in Fury’s office, he told himself to stop being ridiculous. Fury’s debriefing was typically onerous and though Phil was congratulated on the success of the op and assigned back to the clean-up in Portland (which should perhaps have made him happy, but strangely, just didn’t) by the time it was finished he was exhausted. 

The Quinjet still needed to be re-fitted and fuelled for the return journey which gave him a bit of time and he decided to chance the commissary quickly to grab a sandwich for the flight. He looked quickly through the doors but didn’t see any sign of Clint so joined the queue, grabbing the first packet his hand touched. He was just about to make a quick exit when May entered, followed by Sitwell, fresh from his own debrief.

“Phil!” She smiled, “How are you? Heard the op went off well. Is it finished? I have some new students who are itching to see the tacsim in action if you’re hanging around?”

Phil heard the teasing in her voice and would have snarked his own answer but Sitwell butted in for him.

“Sorry May, Agent Coulson has to get back to Portland. He has a hot date with a hot cellist.” May raised an eyebrow and Sitwell grinned. “Our Phil has got himself a girlfriend at last.”

Phil opened his mouth to protest the ridiculous over-exaggeration but,

“WHAT?” The cry thundered from across the room and every head snapped in its direction. 

Clint. 

Of course it was Clint, hidden at a table in the shadows with Natasha and of course he could read Sitwell’s lips, even from that distance. His eyes blazed incredulous, and Phil found he couldn’t meet them.

“What the _FUCK?_ ” 

Clint’s mouth contorted around the curse and Phil stared at the ugly shape his lips made, the sense memory of them, soft, warm, and the swell of the _pull_ that came with that memory so sudden and strong that it froze him in place. He might have stayed that way forever, staring, shaking, except Natasha grabbed Clint by the arm and wrenched him up out of his chair, propelling him to the far exit with a stream of furious Russian that was too low and fast for Phil to catch. She turned at the door and glared at Phil, her expression fierce. And then they were gone and gradually the canteen settled back into a hum of gossip.

Sitwell whistled, “What’s the matter with them? I’m telling you, he’s a strange one, Barton. Good shot, sure, but strange. You’re lucky to have not had to work with him. And The Widow frankly scares the shit out of me. How about you Phil?”

Phil couldn’t find any words. Or air. Or the floor under his feet.

“Phil?” May asked more gently, “Phil? Are you alright?”

“I..” Phil croaked, then cleared his throat. “I…have to go.”

Only years of training stopped him leaving the canteen at a run. 

His life was a mess. 

>>===>>

Phil went back to Portland. There was work still for him to do after all and it couldn’t just be abandoned. And besides, where else was there to go? As the flight took off his phone chimed again,

_Fine. I see how it is. It sucks, and you’re STILL WRONG. You are so fucking wrong Phil. But fine. You won’t hear from me anymore._

He held it together through the flight and the drive back to the Portland base, just. On the way he made a quick stop at a 7-11 to snatch up a bottle of scotch and then, once he was back in his room, drank half the thing against the clamour of his better judgement. Without even using a glass and with the television blaring loud to drown out the way Clint’s message still rang in his ears.

It was the worst Friday night he could ever remember.

>>===>>

Phil stumbled through Saturday with a hangover that he hid behind his sunglasses and the ton of paperwork, evidence and interviews that came with the closing of an op and on Sunday he wrapped up the loose ends before heading to the bar to meet Audrey. He was a walking mess of guilt (how hurt Clint had looked), misery (how lost he felt), longing (the need for Clint was constant) and defiance (why shouldn’t he have a drink with an attractive woman? Was he meant to always be alone?) but he tried to pull it together, to be fair to Audrey. 

Once again, she was great company and the way she was should have made it easy. They ordered drinks and snacks, Audrey opting to go straight for dessert, insisting on ordering Phil a slice of what she said was ‘the best pie in this or any other state’. She asked questions, laughed at his stories, offered ones of her own and filled in his silences. So it should have been easy. But Phil couldn’t settle, couldn’t relax. He tried not to let it show but he was angry. Audrey was a wonderful woman, anyone should be glad to have her attention, so why couldn’t he just be glad? Why couldn’t he just relax and enjoy her company?

So much of him liked Audrey, found her attractive, could imagine how there could be a future where they wouldn’t be each other’s soulmates and wouldn’t be replacements for the ones they’d lost, but could maybe make each other happy. But a bigger part of him just wanted what he wanted, what he wanted and couldn’t have. His own soulmate. His friend. Clint. Always Clint. More than anything on Earth.

The noise he made was half groan, half sigh and embarrassingly loud in the quiet bar. What was he doing? How did he get here? How was he meant to avoid hurting anyone and not go crazy? 

“Phil?” Audrey leaned forward, concerned, “Are you alright?”

The bar door opened and Phil absently tracked the newcomers sharply clicking footsteps as he tried to formulate an answer. Was he alright? He had no idea but was spared an explanation when the footsteps stopped and a shadow fell over the table.

“Mind if I cut in?” The voice was clipped, accented, familiar and when Phil looked up he found himself meeting the steely glare of Natasha Romanov. Her smile glittered dangerous. “Agent Coulson. I believe it is time for us to have a talk.”

>>===>>


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sometimes when fic ideas come to you they come as just one scene, one vivid moment that you write towards come hell or high water, anything to bring that moment to life. This fic was born from two of those moments. You had one of the pair way back in Chapter Two, this chapter contains the other. Hope you enjoy x

>>===>>

Nodding pointedly, Natasha spun neatly on her heel and strode out of the bar, leaving Phil muttering a quick ‘excuse me’ to Audrey and scrambling to follow. Natasha was waiting by a bench in the small park across the street and as he crossed, she gave him a meaningful stare that for some reason made him want to blush. He fought it back and stood, stance as firm as he could make it. “What is it?”

“I am trying to decide,” Natasha said, after a long pause during which she circled him slowly, appraisingly, “if I am looking at a coward, or an idiot. Your work with S.H.I.E.L.D. suggests you are neither, and yet, here we are. So, Agent Coulson, which is it?”

Phil was in no mood for riddles. He crossed his arms. “Agent Romanov, can I help you?”

Natasha stopped in front of him and stood with her weight on one leg, hip popped, arms also folded, the very picture of pissed-off. “I am very much hoping so, Agent Coulson. As you know I recently left a lucrative, if perhaps morally questionable, role as hired assassin to join your organisation with the aim of balancing my books, doing some good in the world, wiping some of the red from my ledger. But right now I have two problems preventing me from achieving that aim.” She raised a long, neatly manicured finger. “One, the team I am working with requires a handler, and cannot find one. I have reviewed your files, your service history and your mission reports. You are meticulous but not afraid to innovate, excellent at tactical planning but willing to allow the assets who work with you to improvise, you have a dry sense of humour which I can appreciate and your combat scores are excellent. Altogether impressive. Therefore I have made the decision that you are the best Agent to fill the required role of our handler.”

“What?” Phil spluttered, taking a step back, “I can’t…Clint…”

Natasha cut him off sharply by raising a second finger. “ _Which brings me_ to my second problem. I am also unable to achieve my aim if my chosen and assigned partner is currently a useless ball of misery and misplaced martyrdom. Which he is. So, what are you going to do about it?”

Phil was reeling. “What do you expect me to do?” 

She grinned, sharklike, “Come with me. Come back to the Triskelion. Talk to Clint.”

“Not possible,” Phil shook his head definitely, absolutely, _no_. 

Natasha scowled. “Give me one good reason.”

“There are rules.”

“I said a **good** reason.” Natasha snapped, stepping forward, her spine drawing tall and rigid. She looked deadly and Phil felt his body automatically trying to fall into a defensive pose. He fought the urge for a seeming age while Natasha eyed him and then she loosened. “Rules. I understand, I really do. But there are always rules and at times, people in our position, we are forced to bend them even until they break.” She stepped back, sighing in a world-weary fashion, “Coulson, Clint has told me your story, many, many times and in excruciating detail and there is no point in pretending you two haven’t come almost to that point already. These ‘rules’, S.H.I.E.L.D’s , the world’s, I do not think they can be made to apply to you. So, finish the job. Come back. Talk to Clint. You can both stop pretending that this separation is a good idea. Give him what you both want.”

“I can’t.” Phil used his firmest tone.

Hers was firmer. “Coulson. We don’t know each other yet, but I know people. Was _taught_ to know people, made to. And I see you. History student turned Agent, one of the fastest ever to move through the levels of S.H.I.E.L.D., head of so many black ops. You made your _find_ with an arrow at your throat. All that screams the _hearttongue_ of a man who lives for challenge and thrives on it. This is just another challenge and I am telling you, you must rise to it.” She cocked her head. “Or is it coward after all?” 

Rise to it. Phil crumpled down onto the bench. Rise to it? How could he, how was that possible? With all there was to lose?

Natasha softened very slightly and sank down next to him. For a moment the two of them just stared off into the park, and then she spoke, more gently. “Clint Barton is very important to me. He was a bright spot in what passed for my childhood and finding him again has been a blessing I did not think to have. If I could, I would _find_ him and _bind_ him myself, spare him all this nonsense and myself from having to hear about it. But I cannot, because it isn’t my voice his _hearttongue_ is waiting to hear.”

“It isn’t mine either,” Phil said, flatly, “it’s been too long, It can’t be.”

She slid him a sideways look of pure distain. “And if you believe that, then perhaps it really is idiot.” She stood, an exhibition of controlled and deadly grace. “And in the end does that really matter? If you _match_? I know society thinks so, ‘everyone’ thinks so, even I would have thought so before now. But I see now I see you, I see Clint and I wonder. It doesn’t matter to him. Clint is still waiting, whether he would admit it now or not. Is common opinion so much more important than his?” 

Phil choked, unable to work out an answer. He’d honestly never thought of it that way, that what ‘everyone’ thought about _matching_ could be just that, a thought, an opinion, and not absolute fact. What had he missed by not realising that? 

Natasha watched the struggle cross his face, huffed a tiny bitter laugh then refocused sharply on him, flint-eyed again. “I think I like you Agent Coulson, so I will give you this. I said Clint is important to me, and he is. So I won’t watch him hurt like this. Find a way to fix it or I swear to you now, I will take him. _Find_ or no, _bind_ or no, I will leave S.H.I.E.L.D., I will take him with me and you will not see either of us again. That is not a warning, it is a promise. So decide what you are going to do and do it, before I make the decision for you. That is all I have to say. Good evening.”

Phil watched her walk a few paces, then found himself standing, calling loudly after her, “Natasha! What is Clint waiting for?”

She turned, a pleased smile suddenly just curving the edges of her mouth, “Finally, the right question. And you know the answer Coulson. You already know. What has Clint always been waiting for, his whole life?”

Phil pictured Clint, gorgeous, scarred, hard and soft all together and the answer rose instantly, instinctively, “Someone to trust.”

Natasha nodded, “And someone who trusts him.”

“But he can!” Phil insisted, “Trust me, I mean. He can. And I do, I do trust him. Totally. He knows that, he has to know that.”

“Oh Phil,” she shook her head gently. “You think so. But when it came to it, you didn’t trust him to stay.”

And with that, she turned again, strode into the shadows and left him, alone in the park.

The breath froze in his lungs.

Oh.

Fuck.

Phil sat for a long moment, head ringing, before he remembered he hadn’t started the evening alone. Audrey. Hell, Audrey! He turned to go back to the bar but she was already hurrying over the street towards him.

“I saw her leave. Are you alright?” Phil didn’t answer and he felt her scanning his face. Eventually she smiled sadly. “This is already finished, isn’t it?”

His stomach flipped guiltily. “Audrey, I’m so…”

“No, don’t Phil, it’s alright.” She shook her head, “I knew it was a long shot. So many of your stories were about your ‘friend’ that I knew this was probably going nowhere. It’s alright. I remember how it this is.” As she spoke, she brushed the tips of her fingers across the _crossed_ -words on her cheek. “I really do remember.”

Phil’s own words seemed to burn on his chest, “It’s not like that.”

Now she smiled more knowingly, the start of one of her grins, “But you want it to be.”

Phil couldn’t lie anymore. Not to her, not to himself, “Yes. Yes I do.”

“Well then, that’s your start. You’ll figure out where to go from there. Sometimes you just have to take a leap.” She looked in the direction Natasha had left in. “It’s not her, is it?”

That startled a snort from him. “No! No, it’s not.”

“I’m glad. She’s pretty terrifying.”

“She really is.” Phil agreed, “But I think her heart’s in the right place.”

“Good. Now you go see where yours is.” She leaned up, kissed him on the cheek, a final goodbye. “I ate your pie, figured you wouldn’t mind. Stay well Phil.”

And then he watched her leave too. 

Alone again, Phil shook his head in amazement. He was thirty-six, had a masters History degree and was a senior Agent in a super secret government agency. He dealt with intrigue, tactics, politics and espionage every day. He was pretty sure he was no fool. So why did he feel like he had just been very firmly been taken back to school? Twice?

>>===>>

The quinjet engines roared as Phil headed back to The Trisk. He wondered briefly if he could ask the pilot to speed up a bit more, then dismissed the idea as unprofessional and ridiculous. But he couldn’t concentrate. He fidgeted in his seat, uncharacteristically agitated, nerves and anticipation eating away at his usual calm. It didn’t help that significant phrases from his two recent epiphany lectures kept replaying in his head like a stuck record.

_I will take him and you will never see him again_

Phil had taken about six seconds after Audrey’s departure to decide that not only did he believe that Natasha meant what she said but also that she could probably pull it off and finally that it was absolutely unacceptable. There was no way he could live in a world that didn’t have Clint in it. Not just because of the _pull_ and not because Clint was his soulmate but because _Clint_. To be without Clint would be like taking away the sun, and he couldn’t go back into the shadows. Life without Clint wouldn’t be life anymore. And if that was true, what the fuck was he doing in fucking Portland? He’d ordered the Quinjet maybe five seconds later.

_Sometimes you just have to take a leap._

How the hell had Audrey seen it and he hadn’t? Maybe he was a coward after all. He’d been so afraid things with Clint going wrong that he hadn’t actually allowed himself to seriously imagine any scenario in which they went right. So wound up in soulmate lore and tradition and expectations that he hadn’t even been able to visualise living outside that box. Hell, maybe he hadn’t been brave enough to try. Because if he never tried, then he could never fail, right? 

Phil shook his head and huffed, angry and amazed at his own stupidity. What had he wanted, a guarantee? How? He went out almost daily with a gun to chase down bad people who had guns of their own and wanted to use them a lot more than he wanted to use his. He defused bombs. He ran through war zones and sneaked into hidden lairs. He’d been shot, beaten, bruised, stitched and taped back together more times than he could count, he’d lost colleagues, friends and almost himself. There _were_ no guarantees and he knew it and had accepted it, but he loved the job and thought what he was working for was worth the risk. Which led him to the suddenly blindingly obvious million dollar question…why _the fuck_ hadn’t he applied the same logic to his relationship with Clint? When that was _so much more important?_

He groaned, loud enough to startle the pilot up front, who tactfully averted his eyes. Natasha was right, he was an idiot. An A-grade, solid gold, 24-carat idiot.

Well, not any more. He was going back to the Trisk, he was going to find Clint and he was going to be brave, as brave as Audrey who had reached out, even when those crossed-words on her cheek told the whole world what she’d already lost. He was going to tell Clint that he was sorry, that he was stupid and that he would take whatever he could get of him for as long as he could have it and hold it tight with both hands like the precious gift it was.

And in the end that might not work, it really might not. Clint’s _match_ was still out there, and Phil knew first hand the power of the _pull_. But he had to try.

He’d just have to hope that Clint would still care, still be interested, and the possibility that he might not had Phil clutching the edge of his jump-seat white-knuckled and breathing heavily through a sudden rush of nausea.

_You didn’t trust him to stay._

And that there was the kicker, wasn’t it? 

That sentence just ripped right through all his carefully constructed logic and excuses, his stated intention to protect both of them and made a mockery of it. Because now, with Natasha’s accusation as a filter, he could see it. Jesus, it was obvious! Whatever his intentions, all he’d actually done was reject Clint, reject his opinion, his beliefs and, worse, he’d rejected how Clint _felt_. And yes, he’d been panicked, yes, he’d been caught by surprise but he’d also been a complete and total asshole. Clint Barton, of all people, _Clint Barton_ had been trying to tell Phil that he loved him and Phil had _run away_. 

He dropped his head into his hands. 

He’d done it for what he thought was the right reasons. He’d done it because he’d been trying to be noble, to take care of Clint’s future and because he’d genuinely struggled to believe that someone like Clint could actually want someone like him, but really all he’d done was act like Clint didn’t know his own feelings, like he needed saving from himself. And what really terrified him now was that he’d probably, unforgivably, made it seem as if Phil thought being with Clint would be a risk and that Clint wasn’t worth it. That the joy he was being offered wasn’t worth the possibility of pain when really he should have said that Clint was worth, well, anything. Everything.

And then he’d let Clint think he was dating, as if Clint didn’t even matter. 

What an complete and utter _moron_!

If Phil hadn’t suspected that the pilot might see it and call to have S.H.I.E.L.D.’s psych unit waiting when they landed he would have given himself a good punch. Or six.

He might have blown it already. 

He probably had. 

Clint might not want to speak to him ever again and he’d deserve it.

The possibilities for disaster were endless…

No. 

Phil’s made his back rigid, sat straight in his seat and fixed his tie. **No**. Stop.

He had to pull himself together and away from this panic spiral. No more guessing, no more worrying away at things, no more supposing. He had to go to Clint and just talk, properly, no dramatics, just talk, apologise as many times as necessary and see which way the cards fell. 

If he was lucky he might get his friend back. And if he was positively blessed by the gods, then maybe, just maybe…

But were words really enough? Phil’s instinct said not. Deep inside he felt the need to prove to Clint the depth of his feelings, prove that he did trust him, he really did and in every way that was possible, and to show that Clint could trust him right back. He’d work so hard to do exactly that for the rest of his life if Clint would let him, and god he hoped Clint would let him, but right now he just had to start somewhere.

And he knew exactly where.

Reaching for his tablet, Phil accessed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secure online database and pulled up the Soulmate Code of Conduct. Suddenly grateful that the flight would take a while, he picked up his stylus and started work.

_Rise to it._

He intended to.

>>===>>

Fury wasn’t in his office when Phil sneaked in, he couldn’t decide if that made it easier or harder. But either way, he had a task to complete. Pulling out the tablet he accessed the document he’d been working on, flagged it for Fury’s immediate attention and placed it on his desk where the Director would be sure to see it the moment he came back. 

The second thing he needed was already in the room. A form. It was a form kept only in this office and not accessible any other way. It couldn’t be filled in on a whim; it was a form you had to ask Fury himself for, one had to explain your reasons for needing. It couldn’t be filled in electronically, you had to feel every stroke of the pen and ink as you completed it. It was a form Phil knew where to find but had never, ever expected to use himself. He stared at the paper. Perhaps it should have trembled very slightly in his hand, perhaps the pen should have dragged, but it didn’t. Phil’s hand was steady. He’d made his decision and if this was what it took, this was what it took. 

Feeling strangely light, Phil perched on Fury’s chair and practically skipped through the boxes, added his signature and slid the form under the tablet. He left them both there, in the centre of the desk with a note taped to the top,

_‘Nick,_

_I’m sorry about this, but it’s one or the other. No other option. Let me know which._

_Thank you for everything._

_Phil’_

and left the office without looking back.

>>===>>

Phil headed next for his own office, intending to check Clint’s schedule. If he wasn’t on op, which wasn’t likely given that Natasha had been in Portland only half a day or so ago (and how she’d managed that he wasn’t going to be asking any time soon) then he would surely be in training, or at the range and Phil had a vague plan of turning up with some spurious paperwork, hoping that Clint would go along with the ruse long enough for them to get somewhere private where they could talk. He hoped also that he wasn’t going to get punched because with arms the size of Clint’s that would hurt like hell…with arms the size of Clint’s…but Phil pulled back from that thought. That was a very different kind of daydream and not one he’d earned yet.

He’d almost reached his own floor when a tiny wide-eyed woman came barrelling round a corner all out of breath and almost knocked him over. She was panting and Phil put out his hands to steady her.

“Careful, Cadet…” Phil recognised her from one of May’s training classes, “ Cadet Bettany. Is this rush absolutely necessary?” He was stern, but the woman’s face just crumpled in relief.

“Oh, Agent Coulson, thank goodness, Agent May sent me to get a senior Agent to advise. Will you come sir? Please?” She gestured down the corridor towards one of the training rooms and took a gulping breath. “It’s Agent Barton.”

>>===>>

Phil left Bettany stumbling in his wake, made to the training room in seconds and burst through the door. Inside, the atmosphere was tense enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Several cadets and baby Agents manned screens showing various satellite images, heat-imaging, traditional film, graphic interpretation, a dozen different views of what looked to be a forest with a group of armed men moving methodically through the trees. Mission spec speakers hissed frantically with the static of lost comms. To the rear of the bank of screens May stood next to a white-faced trainee with the comm. headset, murmuring in his ear as he stared in horror at the images in front of him. Phil skidded to an abrupt halt next to her.

“May. What’s happening?”

May jerked round in surprise, “Phi…Agent Coulson. Good to see you but we’re fine, just an exercise gone a little wrong, you don’t need to be here, Agents Sitwell and Hand are on their way.” She lowered her voice, “Phil, it’s Barton, you _can’t_ be here.”

“I know exactly who it is Melinda,” Phil replied, equally low “and I’m not leaving this room until you tell me exactly what is going on, understood?”

May hesitated, “Phil, the Code.”

“Screw the Code!” Phil hissed, “I don’t care.” And he didn’t. He cared about what had happened to Clint and if being here to find out messed up his career, then so be it. All he needed was Clint, and Clint had promised to stay forever. He raised his voice and barked in his best professional tone, “Agent May, sitrep.”

There was no mistaking the authority and May responded to it immediately, stiffening to attention even though her brow crinkled and Phil suspected he would suffer for pulling rank later. “Sir. The class has been running remote handling simulations on our northern properties, using Agent Barton as a practise asset.” When Phil took a breath the interrupt she cut him off. “He _volunteered_ sir, said he wanted to get out of the Trisk, and you know it’s good to start them off hard. If they can handle Barton, they can handle anything.

“This was our last simulation and it should have been a simple direct-and-retrieve but, as you can see, we ran into an issue. The area should have been clear, it was _swept_ clear before we planted the exercise but there was an armed ambush waiting at one of the rendezvous points. When Barton arrived at the location they attacked, the Agent playing Barton’s contact was taken out and so were the two who were my planned ‘ambush’ team. They’re down. Barton escaped but we think he was wounded, our comms have been interrupted and they’re obviously tracking him.” 

On the screens the heat-imaging showed the bright shapes of at least half a dozen men making their way through dark trees. They were clearly treading a search pattern but there was no sign of Clint. Phil’s chest clenched.

“Who? Why? How did they know where he’d be? Where is he?”

May shrugged, “We don’t know who yet, or how. And Barton is fast, we lost track of him maybe five minutes ago.”

Phil very nearly lost his temper in spectacular fashion, might have, except the comms chose that moment to splutter back into life and Clint’s voice crackled out of the speakers, 

“…nyone hear me? Agent May, are you there? Is anybody there?”

The baby Agent with the headset jerked back into life, “Agent Barton?” he quavered, “Where are you?”

“I’m up a fucking tree, where do you think I am?” Clint absolutely growled and Phil felt light-headed that he was okay enough to sound that pissed-off. “Orders? I’ve taken a hit to the calf, running is not an option and staying up here might not be for very long. There are too many of them for me to go hand to hand and I’ve only got these lousy electronic training arrows, they don’t even have fucking points! You’re the ones with the view, what’s my exit path?”

Phil gestured to the trainee on the heat vision screen to zoom out and sure enough, Clint’s heat image appeared high above the heads of the ambush party. They didn’t seem to have spotted him yet but he was thoroughly surrounded.

“Orders!” Clint quietly demanded again, “I need to get out of here and soon!” The trainee just gaped like a landed fish and wheezed into the mic. “Oh for fuck’s sake, is there someone halfway fucking competent there who can tell me what the fuck to do?”

Phil’s hands moved without any instruction from the rest of him, ripping the headset from the trainee and ramming it onto his own head, “Clint.” he barked, “Tell me what you see.”

Clint’s surprised intake of breath was loud in his ears. “Phil?”

He steeled himself against the way his _pull_ swelled and sang at Clint’s voice, now was not the time to get lost in that thought, “Yes. It’s me. And I’m sorry. For everything. Truly. But now concentrate, this looks bad but we will get you out of it. Tell me what you see.”

“Phil…” Clint stammered and Phil could almost hear him shaking his head, could hear the wound in his voice “You’re not…you can’t…”

Dammit, they didn’t have time for this!

Phil drew himself up to full Agent Coulson height and snapped into the comms with all the force he could muster, 

“Barton. _Talk to me._ ”

“Oh.” 

Phil just had time to hear Clint’s soft gasp and then the comms and screens went mad, violent crackling screeched over the speakers and the images all whited out, heat, film, everything disappeared. It lasted for just a few seconds and was gone as suddenly as it came.

“What was that?” Phil demanded from the room at large, “What the hell was that?”

“Erm, sir?” The impossibly baby-faced brunette on the heat screen spoke up hesitantly, “Sir, the pattern was consistent with a….a soulflare…I believe Agent Barton just….well” she flushed, “Sir, I believe Agent Barton just made his _find_.”

In the back of his head, Phil’s _pull_ howled jubilantly, confirming it. They’d _matched_. Phil felt the floor sway under his feet, between that sudden wonder and the way his stomach roiled at seeing Clint in danger he didn’t know which way was up. He could hardly believe it. This? Now? It was amazing, the best news of his whole life but for fuck’s sake, _now_?

“Clint?” He turned his back on May and the bank of junior agents who were all trying very hard to become invisible, “Clint, are you alright?”

The sound of Velcro ripping open echoed through the room and Phil realised Clint was taking off his arm-brace to look at his soulwords. “Huh.” Clint breathed, sounding as dazed as Phil felt “Red. Red as Lola. I coulda guessed. See Phil,” he said, the slight edge of a grin creeping into his voice, “I toldya you were wrong.”

“Clint…” Phil started, but

“Coulson,” May cut through what would have been another apology, “we have a problem. That flare just comprehensively gave away Barton’s position. Look.” 

Phil turned and followed her pointing finger. Sure enough, on the screen, the heat signatures of the ambushers were steadily converging on Clint. 

“Damn.” He scrubbed his face harshly with his hand, “Did you hear that Agent Barton?”

“Sure Boss. Orders?” Clint asked without hesitation and Phil’s heart hitched, literally missing a beat at the sound of the trust he surely didn’t deserve. But he could only think of one thing they could do and guaranteed Clint wouldn’t like it. Shit. Well, here went nothing.

“Barton, get down the tree so they don’t try and knock you down. Whoever they are, this can’t be some random incursion into S.H.I.E.L.D. territory, they have to have come for you particularly. So, you’re going to have to let them take you. Don’t fight, don’t struggle and for god’s sake don’t sass at them. Let them take you.”

“What?!” 

Clint’s exclamation was echoed by voices all around the training room but Phil turned his back to them again, focused only on his soulmate, his _match_ , willing him to listen. “Clint, they came for you and that means they want you alive. So you stay that way and you let them take you, because I am coming, do you hear me? _I am coming._ Right now. I will come, I will find you and I will take you home and keep you forever if you’ll let me but you have to be alive when I do it, do you understand me? You do whatever it takes to keep yourself alive because _I am coming._ Alright?”

There was a tiny pause and then Clint very quietly said “Alright.”

The next minute was one of the hardest of Phil’s entire existence. Listening as Clint struggled down the tree with his wounded leg obviously hindering him, that was painful, but the moment when the ambush party found him filled Phil’s chest with ice and fire. There was a call of ‘hands on your head!’ and then a scuffle and then Phil just had time to reply “I’m coming” to Clint’s hurried “Phil…” before there was a resounding ‘crunch’ and the comms went absolutely dead.

Phil swiped quickly at his face and allowed himself five long seconds to try and get a hold on the spinning world and his rocking emotions then whirled and faced the room, once again as sharp and professional as his suit. “You!” he snapped, pointing at one of the juniors, “Call the hangar, get me a Quinjet and tell them I want it ready to go ten damn minutes ago.” The junior scrambled to comply and Phil chose another at random, “You, get Sitwell, arrange an extraction team and make sure they follow my jet within the next half hour. And you,” he found the tiny cadet who had finally reached the comm room, “Cadet Bettany, you find Agent Romanov and tell her to meet me at the Quinjet. Now!” Finally, as they hurried frantically to comply, he turned to May with a hard smile. “Agent May. I need a pilot. You’re with me.” 

“Of course.” She agreed, giving his arm a warm congratulatory squeeze that was quite at odds with the dangerous half-smirk her mouth wore, “Do we have a plan?”

The smile hardened further. “Simple. We are going to find my soul and utterly kick the ass of whoever thought they could touch him.” He balled his hands into heavy fists, already half out of the door, “Alright with you?”

May’s smirk turned wicked as she followed him out of the room. “Absolutely. Sounds like a fun trip.”

“Good.” Phil strode down the corridor towards his destiny without looking back. “Let’s go.”

>>===>>


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home straight now people and I cannot thank you enough for all your encouragement and support. You guys and your kudos and comments and commitment to watching my versions of our boys get where they are going really are the reason this has gotten so far. You have my undying love and gratitude!
> 
> A bit shorter this chapter, but I think it's time we check in with Clint before we push to the end, don't you? Enjoy x

>>===>>

Ow.

Shit.

Fuck.

That was going to be quite the headache.

Clint let himself rise slowly back to the surface of consciousness all the while following his unbreakable rule, holding himself steady and not giving away the fact that he’d woken up until he was totally sure who was watching. As each sense came gradually back online, he took stock. Aside from the burgening headache he was…cold. Chilled, probably from having his body heat leeched away by whatever he was lying on. It felt like stone, or concrete, presumably a floor. He was colder than he should be, so he figured someone had taken at least some of his clothes. His chest felt exposed so his tac vest must be missing. So that meant creepers as well as kidnappers, or at kidnappers least clever enough not to trust a guy with too many pockets. 

Brilliant.

The wound in his calf was a point of sore heat but not one that worried him too much, it actually didn’t feel like it was still bleeding so perhaps this enforced rest had done it a favour. The worst, he realised, was that his arms were restrained behind him, chained to something seemed most likely from the heavy weight round his wrists. The ache of the twist that put in his shoulders was dull and persistent but not agonising which suggested he’d been there a good few hours but not days. They, whoever they were, had to have brought him here, wherever here was, pretty soon after plucking him out of that tree and knocking him down into the snow, turning off his lights. A weird, full kind of feeling was buzzing away in the back of his head, but that was probably linked to the headache those bastards had ordered for him and he could just about ignore it.

Clint forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly and listen.

Nothing. No sound, no breath, none of the creepy skin-prickling that would mean he had eyes on him. It really didn’t seem like there was anyone there. He decided to risk taking a look and opened his eyes just a crack to scan through the gloom. Unless they were right behind him, and he trusted that even in this state he would have noticed that, there was nobody else in the room. Clint sat up with a relieved groan, flexing as best he could and working a little life back into his protesting muscles. Trying the chain round his hands got him nowhere, it was secured to something behind him, but he managed to roll his shoulders and was pleased to feel the burn of blood starting to move again. If he was going to get out of here he was definitely going to need his arms. 

With some wiggling he managed to lever himself to his knees but got no further. The chain round his wrists, and it was a chain, he could hear it clinking on the concrete, wasn’t long enough to let him stand and trying brought him up painfully short. Clint huffed under his breath, half resigned and half pissed off. He really did have a talent for getting into the stupidest situations. Thankfully he was usually good at getting out of them too, and he had to believe he could do it this time as well. He took a breath in an attempt to clear his head. Right. Getting rid of the chain had to be first priority and then getting the fuck out. Unfortunately he had absolutely no idea how he was going to manage that, half naked, wounded and totally weaponless, but perhaps there would be something in the room that would be inspiring. It seemed to be some sort of office but that didn’t put him off that much, after all, he worked in an office where javelins, throwing stars and working anti-aircraft guns were practically standard interior design, so who knew what be hiding in the corners? Clint took another careful look around, actually paying attention to details this time and frowned when he noticed a large round logo painted on the wall opposite him.

S.S.R.?

Clint was no history buff but it was impossible to hang around the Triskelion for too long without coming across those letters. S.S.R., that was the Strategic Scientific Reserve, the guys before S.H.I.E.L.D. Peggy Carter and Captain America and all that. So, what did that mean? This was, what? A S.H.I.E.L.D. base? How could it be? Clint’s frown deepened. If this shit turned out to be an extension of May’s training exercise, one of those weird surprises that she thought were excellent training material rather than legitimately terrifying pieces of evil he would not be responsible for his actions….. But no, it couldn’t be. Agents had died and even May wouldn’t be that extreme. So, that meant…he had no fucking idea.

Clint slumped. He was bollocksed. This had been the shittiest of shitty weeks, and his life had contained some seriously shitty weeks. A wave of exhaustion threatened to overtake him and he closed his eyes again. From sitting on that apartment floor watching Phil close that door behind him, through the crappy, confused days after and all the way to scrambling out of that damn tree into the hands of these bastards and then getting a beating, a totally shitty week. 

It had been the worst pain he’d ever felt.

Not the beating, nah, he’d probably had worse than that from high-wire accidents in the circus and he’d definitely been given worse on purpose. Really this one had been a bit half-hearted aside from the lump on his head and honestly, had hardly registered. 

A few bruises were nothing compared to baring his entire heart to Phil and then watching Phil walk away. And even _that_ sharp, clawing wrench had been nothing compared to the dull agony of the days after when he’d had nothing but a series of texts with no replies and Natasha to cling on to. That had been…utter shit. In fact, it had only been Natasha and his pride that had stopped him from going down under the weight of Phil’s silence and the ridiculous mixed-up mess of emotion that came with knowing so very desperately that _Phil was wrong_ , wanting so badly to _chase_ him and _shake_ him and demand a different answer, and at the same wanting to run six hundred miles in the other direction and never have to look at him again. 

Those had not been good days. 

Without Natasha Clint knew he would probably have either crawled into the oblivion provided by the nearest convenient bottle or hidden in the range and trained until the skin stripped from his hands and gave him a new agony to concentrate on. Especially after Sitwell’s little canteen revelation about Phil having a fucking _date_. Clint curled in on himself reflexively at the memory and swallowed back a groan. That had just been…stupid. He hadn’t even been jealous of whoever the woman was, just so _angry_. He hadn’t been able to believe that Phil could be so _catastrophically ridiculous_ when it had been so clear that he wasn’t even _happy_ about it! Nobody with body language like Phil had been showing could possibly have been happy! So what the fuck had he been playing at? It had taken Natasha’s intervention again not to mention a seriously tight armlock to stop Clint from storming across the canteen, grabbing Phil and probably ruining both their careers by demanding some answers. Bless Natasha. He’d been so angry at her too, which was probably why as soon as she’d wrestled him back to his room she’d made up some excuse about having someone she needed to talk to and disappeared. And he’d known, really, that she’d been right to drag him out but that hadn’t stopped the rage and sadness from settling as a tangible weight into his chest and seeping into his limbs so that everything ached like he was a hundred years old, a bone-deep pain that he hadn’t been able to imagine ever going away.

And that thought made Clint straighten up again, eyes popping open in surprise. He _hadn’t_ been able to imagine it going away.

So where was it?

Clint quickly ran another self-assessment. Yeah, he was cold, a bit sore, his arms were aching, his calf stung and the oncoming headache was not his favourite thing but apart from that, he felt…fine. Better than fine. Pretty…good actually. Where was that lead weight he’d been carrying about for the last week? It had vanished and the only other thing he felt was the weird buzz in his head under the headache that just felt like….

Shit.

Shit!

The buzz that somehow just felt like _Phil_.

As if recognising it had called it out the feeling swelled like sunlight, racing up and out and through him, leaving him shaking with a full-body shudder of total exhilaration. The force of it slammed into Clint like a truck, and left him reeling. God, how had he forgotten for even five seconds? Phil had been on the comms, the one place Clint had never ever expected to have him, and he’d said Clint’s soulwords words. Finally, finally said them and of course in his voice they’d finally made sense. And then that light, the soulflare, had shined out so damn brightly, it had to be true. 

He’d made his _find_ and it had been for Phil! They’d _matched_! Him and Phil! 

_Matched!_  
Clint wished he could twist to see the soulwords etched down his forearm, finally coloured, bright red and readable to everyone. And this, this feeling was the _pull_? Jesus. No wonder Phil had been so worried, this was, this was…wow. It was crazy strong. He examined the feeling, poking and prodding at it, splashing like a kid on a rainy day just to see how the sparkle fell. The feeling was complicated and varied and gorgeous, it was the glee of being a little bit tipsy, the anticipation of waking up on one of those magical days when you somehow just know that you’re going to have a great day, the way looking at a stunning view or an amazing piece or art or hearing a great song could make you feel, like drowning in beauty. In the face of it Phil’s fears became that bit more understandable, that bit more justifiable. Maybe he had had good reason, been right to hold back after all.

Clint gasped into it, trying to catch his breath. It was almost overwhelming. And it was longing, every cell in his body straining like a magnet towards iron, pulling towards, towards…well, just _pulling_. He wanted, god, he _wanted_.

He wanted Phil.

But not, he realised as it began to settle, not any more than he had before. This wasn’t _extra_ , it was just… _different_. Maybe more physical, more tangible, but not more powerful. It was just another layer, separate to the fact that he was in love with Phil, adding to it but not erasing it or superseding it. Nothing could have done that. 

So he’d been right too.

“Fuck Phil, I told you so.” Clint muttered, not even trying to hold back the smug. “I fucking well told you.” He almost wanted to be angry again because Phil should have trusted that he meant what he said when he’d promised to stay but there just wasn’t any way to manage it right now, the _match_ , the _pull_ was driving out everything else. And that was another thing. Clint could believe now that Phil had feared having to compete with this, but he couldn’t believe that he’d lived with something this strong for three damn years and not said anything about it. How had he managed that? No wonder there were so many stories about unrequiteds going crazy, that he hadn’t was more proof that Phil Coulson was absolute iron.

Stupid iron. Stubborn iron. And the only iron Clint would ever be attracted to ever again. 

Damn. Clint shook his head to clear it a bit, because if his metaphors were getting away from him to that extent he had to be really losing it.

Right. 

It was time to concentrate. Phil had promised he was going to come for him (and that recollection, the memory of the earnestness and heat in Phil’s voice sent him into another spiral of amazement) and Clint needed to be ready when he did. He had to get out, get ready and be in place to meet and help Phil when he arrived in whatever back-of-beyond shit-hole this turned out to be. Because Phil was coming, no question.

With an effort of supreme will Clint wrestled the _pull_ back, pushed it away and down to a level where its siren call was background noise, the sheer need something he could acknowledge but not be distracted by. It coiled there in the cave at the back of his mind, a dragon lying greedily over its hoard of joy.

He swept a look round the room again because, who knew? maybe third time would be the charm. A desk with an old-fashioned brass and green glass lamp, a sturdy-looking chair, a few files, nothing immediately obvious to use to for an escape but there had to be _something_. Maybe if he could reach the chair he could break a leg off into a useful length of wood to make a lever or even a decent sized splinter to have a go at whatever lock was on these chains. Stretching his arms as far as the chain would allow Clint kicked out with his good leg trying to hook the chair and drag it over close enough to kick it to pieces. Despite the strain the move put on his arms and the weight on his bad leg the chair was almost near and enough he was alllmost there, just a tiiiiny bit further…

“We put him in here sir, like you said.” The voice came from the corridor.

Aw, bad guys, no.

Quick and silent Clint scuffled himself back nearer the wall and dropped down, going limp and slack, feigning unconsciousness. The door opened and footsteps sounded as someone made their way across the room to where he was lying, stood over him, presumably watching. He kept his breathing light and even. There were a few more steps and Clint felt the air move as whoever it was leaned down closer. The voice that came dripped derision, “You might as well sit up Circus, I know you’re awake.”

>>===>>

It couldn’t be. Clint opened his eyes. It was. Looking down at him sideways, crouched and leering, was a man he’d last seen in the maths classroom back at the academy, stuffed into the wastebin where Clint had dropped him and who he’d pretty much hoped never to see again. This week was getting weirder all the time.

Clint sat himself up and pulled his knees underneath himself so he could at least meet the stare head-on. “Samuels.”

The ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent grinned. “I imagine you didn’t expect to see me again, did you Circus?”

Clint cocked his head on one side, frowned in exaggerated puzzlement, “Well, truthfully, no. I kinda expected that you’d realise that the garbage was a good fit for your personality and just stay there. Like Oscar the Grouch, but less likeab… _Ow_ …” He flexed his jaw. The slap had stung more than it had hurt, but still, kick a man when he’s down.

“Shut up.” Samuels said, mildly, as he stood to cross to the desk, sitting in the chair that been the focus of Clint’s hopes not two minutes ago. “I really don’t have the time or interest for your smartassing and your clever, quippy talk. You’re nowhere near as smart as you think you are. Case in point, I have you chained up at my feet. It’s a bad day for you, isn’t it, Big Top?” When Clint stayed silent he frowned. “What’s the matter? Tiger got your tongue? I do hope not. I’m sure you have plenty of things to tell me.”

“I’m not telling you anything.” Clint scoffed.

“Oh, I’m sure you think that.” Samuels replied, “But we’ll see.” He leaned back in the chair, a picture of smug ease, stretching his arms above his head, with a deliberate sidelong stare at Clint who chaffed against his restraints, “You, know, appearances aside, I am pleased to see you. I suppose I should thank you even. I had a nice gig at S.H.I.E.L.D., especially once I’d managed to get myself injured out to the Academy. All the benefits and none of the field work, so I was rather…” he gritted his teeth, “shall we say, ‘inconvenienced’ when you crashed your way into my class and got me fired. But afterwards…”

“I’m sorry,” Clint interrupted, “But two things. One, you got yourself fired through being the largest pile of bullying crap to have ever walked the earth and two, is this gonna be the type of badguy speech that has both your life story _and_ your evil plot? If it is then I’d like to request a blanket. And a Dictaphone. Because as much as I adore listening to your whiny voice, if I can do that and take a nap at the same time I think we’d really both be on to a winn…ufff…” Clint was cut off when Samuels rose from the chair and backhanded him again. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the blow coming, but in his current position all he could do was take it and put on a good show about how much it hurt, when in truth Samuels wasn’t going to win any prizes. He glared. “Rude.”

Samuels smirked, the expression tight and sharp. “I told you to shut up. And I know what you’re doing. Standard interrogation procedure. You’re trying to get me angry so I’ll slip up and make some kind of mistake. I can assure you, it isn’t going to work.” Clint wanted to smirk himself at that, because he was fairly sure it already was working given that Samuels seemed to be on the edge of some barely controlled emotional eruption already, but he stayed silent. He might as well see what information Samuels would give away while he showboated. He didn’t have to wait long.

“As I was saying. After my undignified exit from S.H.I.E.L.D. I was at a loose end. In need of another role, an organisation which would appreciate my skills. And eventually, I found one. Or, should I say, they found me. And I had my eyes opened. S.H.I.E.L.D.” he spat, “So stupid. So obsessed with saving the world. Saving it and saving it and saving it all over again. And I’ll admit, perhaps there was a time when I too would have aligned with that intention. But before long I found myself asking, why? What is the point of continually rescuing a world, a race of people which is so determined to immediately sink itself back into trouble again?” He laughed derisively. “Such a waste of talent. My new employers, now, they share my opinions and they have other, much more effective, plans. Not to save the world, but to save it from itself. To rule and bring order to the chaos. And once I prove myself, I am going to be part of that.”

“Prove yourself.” Clint asked flatly, eyebrow raised.

“Oh yes. This organisation is not as foolish as Nick Fury. They don’t hand out trust willy-nilly to anyone who comes to them with good intentions. Loyalty must be proven, compliance must be demonstrated, in order to be rewarded. And that is where you come in.” Samuels paused and eyed Clint almost lecherously for a long moment and then abruptly continued, grinning in a fairly maniacal manner. “I am so very glad it can be you, Circus. I said I should thank you but that doesn’t mean I was happy about the humiliation you delivered. Quite the opposite. And now, you get to pay for it and I get to show my loyalty. Two for one, quite the deal. I was waiting for my chance, but I didn’t think I’d get this lucky!” Samuels actually clapped his hands, almost bouncing in his glee. “You see, I’ve been set up here a long time. I doubt a posing caveman such as yourself will have realised, but this is actually an old base from the time of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. You’re still on S.H.I.E.L.D. property and only a few kilometres from where we captured you. But nobody knows that this establishment is here! Isn’t that funny?”

Clint didn’t think that it was particularly, but he had to keep Samuels talking, both for the information and to waste as much time as possible. Phil was coming. “How? How does that work?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you” He preened at the question and Clint sighed internally. As much as he might deny it, Samuels was clearly dying to tell him and show off his cleverness. He crouched on the floor just out of Clint’s reach, cross-legged as if telling stories to a child, “ After all, it’s not as if you’ll be able to share the information, is it? When I began in S.H.I.E.L.D., well before Fury got his hands all over it, much of the organisation was in need of upkeep. One of the first tasks I was given as a junior was to catalogue our property portfolio, which was just as much fun as it sounds. I spent weeks in dusty archives looking out every old safehouse, base, storage locker and cover façade all the way back to the days of the S.S.R. and then months tramping all over the country establishing which ones still existed, which were derelict, destroyed or had been taken over by other businesses. It was a thankless task. But then I found this place.” He gestured round the office as if encompassing a vast empire. “It might not look like much, but it occurred to me, even then, that an unused, forgotten camp in the middle of S.H.I.E.L.D. territory might be a good thing to have in my back pocket, especially one as well hidden as this one. Peggy Carter may have been a sanctimonious old trout, but she certainly could design a hidey-hole. This one is nearly impossible to find unless you know to look for it, and given that I erased it from every S.H.I.E.L.D. record almost twenty years ago when I appropriated the keys, no-one does. It made a good bolt-hole when I had to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. and when I found out you would be visiting, I made sure we had accommodations ready for you,” he said, indicating the chain, “I do hope you enjoy your stay. It might be a long one.”

Clint shuffled on the cold floor. His legs wanted to move, his hands too. He was getting restless, itchy, skin prickling with a sort of anticipation that had less to do with the imprisonment and Samuel’s long-winded story than it did with the…something that was buzzing at him, nibbling just at the edge of his senses. Something….he wasn’t sure. He tried to ignore it and steer the conversation. “Now that’s just bullshit Samuels, and you know it. You possibly can’t have known I was coming up here. Nobody did. Even I didn’t two days ago.”

“Hah!” Samuels was obviously pleased to have another chance to show off, “But you see, I did. When Hill cancelled all my security clearances, she failed to notice the email worm I left in the junior agents' server. What do they say? If you want the real gossip, go to the people nobody else listens to? Well I did. And months of wading through mawkish and dramatic nonsense about people’s love lives and assignment deadlines was made worth it three days ago when I picked up a mail from a junior complaining that he was going to have to run an asset management course with ‘that agent everyone says is the hardest to handle’ – which was you of course, Circus. Imagine how pleased I was to see your name and learn that you were coming up to my neighbourhood! So lucky! Like destiny! From there it was simply a matter hiring some men, staying hidden until May had done her security sweeps and then sending them out to pluck you like a fat pigeon from a branch. Hawkeye, pssht. You didn’t see that coming, did you?” 

Clint kept his face blank, thinking carefully. Hired men. That would explain the half-hearted nature of the beating he’d taken. Bad enough, but nothing compared to what would have come from someone fighting for a cause, who had gone as mad for it as Samuels clearly had. There was another possible advantage, if he could just get out of these chains. He tried not to flinch, though the whatever-it-was he could almost feel dragging at him was making sitting still harder by the moment. Samuels, obviously taking his silence for shock, laughed in his face.

“And now, you’re going to give me the information that I need to show my new employers exactly what I can do and convince them of my loyalty. It’s fitting really. You cost me my former position, now you can help me win my new one. Almost poetic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Clint growled, drawing himself up as high as he could, “it’d be a regular sonnet, except for this. I’m not going to be giving you a damn thing.”

Samuels' smile faded, the hysterical glee in his eyes taking on a hard edge. “Oh, but I think you will. You see, luck was with me again today, wasn’t it? My men told me what happened out in the forest. You made your _find_ for someone on the comms.”

Clint closed his eyed briefly against the rush of anger that came from Samuels putting his twisted tongue even that close to something that was Phil’s and then squeezed them tighter when thinking Phil’s name seemingly increased that drag, that weird buzzing.

“Oh, that hit a nerve did it?” Samuels sneered, “And I think you understand what will happen next. S.H.I.E.L.D. will send a search party to look for you, because they’re too stupidly noble to not. And your new soulmate will come of course, because they’ll be compelled to. And, because they will have no idea we are still so close, my men will be able to ambush them and I’ll have your soulmate in my hands by the end of the day. And from there on, I win!”

“You don’t even know who my _match_ was.” Clint struggled to get the words out, his mind was on fire.

Samuels stood, coming closer to Clint and leaning into his space, forcing him back against his knees and crushing his wounded leg, “It doesn’t matter. Whichever poor sap got stuck with a disappointment like you for a soulmate, it doesn’t matter. Once I have them, I can use them. If it’s one of those pathetic juniors then I’ll simply use them to make you talk. I’ll take them apart, slowly and carefully, and I’ll make you watch until you’re sobbing and telling me everything I want to know. And if it’s someone senior who would have better intel to share than you, then your positions will simply be reversed. I wonder how long even Hand or Sitwell could hold out against watching you screaming on the edge of my knife. Either way, Circus, you end up broken like the trash you are and I end up getting what I need to know to progress. Oh my. It’s going to be a wonderful day!”

Any nuances of the last speech were lost on Clint. He felt like his head might explode, like the buzzy pressure inside it that was almost drowning out everything else might actually make his brain leak out of his ears. He was struggling to keep hold of it, to keep it pressed down and felt on the edge of vomiting all over Samuels’ shoes when he finally recognised what it was. The _pull _. And he didn’t have to hold it back. As soon as he let it go the pain fell away and left behind a clean ache that dragged at him jubilantly and surely could only be rising so far for one reason. Clint started to laugh.__

__“What?” Samuels demanded, “What is it? Why are you laughing?”_ _

__Clint sucked in air past the giggles in his throat and snapped out, “I’m laughing, you piece of shit, because you don’t know what you’ve set yourself up for. I’m laughing because your day is not going to be half as wonderful as you’re thinking.” His voice rose to a shout and still he couldn’t keep back the laugh in it, “And most of all I’m laughing because my soulmate isn’t some junior agent. My soulmate isn’t even Sitwell, or Hand. My soulmate,” he pronounced, proud as he’d ever been of anything, “is PHIL mother-fucking COULSON!”_ _

__The beast in the back of his head sat up, stretched its wings and _roared_ at exactly the same moment that an explosion rocked the compound and sent Samuels staggering. Clint stared at his blanched expression and wide panicked eyes, his own eyes glittering dark and deadly. Lightly, delivering unalterable fact, he grinned. “And you guys are so screwed now.”_ _

__> >===>>_ _


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a long while. I've had a whole lot of rl to do, mostly good stuff but time consuming stuff and this unplanned hiatus has been a lot longer than I intended. Sorry! Thanks for sticking with me :) x
> 
> This should have been the final chapter but it just kept on growing (blame Samuels, he's good to blame) so I've decided to split it and this is now the penultimate instalment (as long as these boys behave themselves...).
> 
> Warnings for canon-typical (bloody) violence and injury.
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

“Phil,” May stared down at him as he knelt in the small forest clearing, carefully scraping away snow and soil to clear the edges of the hidden hatch which was steadily growing more visible under his fingers, “How in the name of god did you know that this was here?”

Phil didn’t look up from his work, “Logic.”

“What?”

“Logic, May. Clint disappeared off our monitors but nothing and nobody left the area. No breaches to the perimeter and nothing in the air. So, logically, he had to still be within our area of observation, still here somewhere.”

May huffed and knelt down, “No Phil, how did you know _this_ was here?” She waved a hand over the metal hatch, “ _This_ this. The base.”

“Ah.” Phil felt himself pinking slightly, “My degree dissertation. I wrote a chapter about the S.S.R.’s use of covert bases called ‘The Architecture of Secrecy’. Oh, don’t laugh,” he said as she snickered, “I was a little more dramatic then I’ll admit. But it became a pet project of mine and I spent a lot of time in some very old archives, twisted some arms to get to some...less available papers. I’m fairly that was what caught S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interest in me in the first place. Aha. Yes! There it is. ”

He sat back on his heels, smiling just the tiniest of smug smiles, to look at the hatch, now fully revealed as a corrugated round with a tiny S.S.R. logo stamped in the centre. 

May frowned. “But it shouldn’t be here. It isn’t on any of our maps or records, it doesn’t show up on any of our sweeps. I checked the area thoroughly Phil, you know I always do.”

“I know May,” Phil reassured her distractedly as he began to feel around the centre of the circle, “but, logically, the men we’re tracking had to be somewhere, didn’t they? It took me a while but apparently my memory hasn’t given up on me yet. The geography of these mountains seemed familiar and even if this base might not show on our new maps the ones I was using were very old and it was definitely marked on those. Whoever tried to hide this should have spent more time in the lower reaches of the libraries.” He gritted his teeth. “Which I will be sure to tell them just as soon as I find them.” 

May shook her head half in disbelief and half in admiration, “You have memory of an elephant.”

“And today I am nothing but grateful for that. All I need to do is get this…..” Phil snapped his head up as Agent Romanov reappeared in the clearing, “Anything?”

“Nothing. Our landing doesn’t seem to have been noticed and there’s nobody to be seen anywhere except that concealed front entrance you showed us.” She walked over and looked down at the hatch, “You’ve found our way in?”

Phil shook his head, “Just mine actually. Do you have a knife?” Taking the one she offered Phil leaned over to wiggle it under the edge of the seal in the centre, “I’ll need you two to go back down and take the front entrance and provide a distraction. This is the old back door, an emergency, same in every base, and I can get in this way easily enough but if Clint has been hit in the leg he might struggle to use it. You’ll have to secure our way out. Yesss…” Finally succumbing to his wiggling the edge of the seal gave way and lifted, the edge forming a handle. Phil grasped and pulled and despite its age the hatch lifted easily, uncovering a long dark tunnel with ladder rungs that started at the edge and disappeared away into the dark. The air that rushed out tasted stale but the ladder itself looked solid. “There we go. Thank you Peggy Carter and S.S.R. maintenance schedules.”

He stood and moved back as May and Agent Romanov peered down into the tunnel. “It’s a sound enough plan”, Romanov said as she straightened up, “But do you…What are you doing?”

Phil paused momentarily in the act of unbuckling his belt and then slid it free from his belt loops and dropped it onto the floor, followed by his comm unit. Next he began emptying his pockets, sending a shower of pens, clips, little metal cylinders, blades and wires down to join the belt. He allowed himself a small smile at their puzzled faces, “Metal detectors. Standard issue S.S.R. They didn’t use motion sensors because what would be the point of an emergency exit that yelled every time anyone used it? But the metal detectors could be avoided because only staff would know about them.”

“Or history nerds.”

“Yes, thank you May, or history nerds. So, no metal.” Reaching the depths of his pockets finally he unclipped his S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card from its usual place on his jacket. Sliding it free of the holder, which joined the pile, he dropped the card into his jacket. Finally, “Do you want this?” He held out his handgun to May who made a face.

“If I want a gun…”

Phil chuckled, “I know, I know, you’ll take one.” He spun, “You then, Agent Romanov?”

“Natasha.” She corrected him a nod, “And of course.” Taking the gun she made it vanish into her tight tacsuit with what Phil had to assume was some sort of magic, “but you can’t just go down there blind and weaponless…”

Phil’s smile tightened, “Not an issue.”

“I think,” May corrected “what Natasha is saying Phil, is that you don’t know what’s down there.”

“Clint is down there.” Phil snapped, “Anything else is just in my way.” From the looks of their faces more of the pain that caused him bled through than he’d intended. Now Agents,” he firmed his voice and pushed on and gratifyingly they both came to attention without comment, “my distraction? Five minutes.”

Nodding tersely, Natasha turned in the direction of the base’s main door and began to jog away, melting quickly into the forest. May paused just long enough to squeeze his arm and then she was gone too.

>>===>>

Suddenly alone, Phil sighed with relief. With nobody watching he could finally allow his calm façade to drop and let himself feel his anger. Unchecked, it filled his body, weighted his limbs and set his skin to buzzing. The hot flood drowned out any fear, panic or trepidation he might have expected to feel, then cooled to set his mind in ice. His hands balled into fists of their own accord and he held himself loose and ready, anticipating the moment they would be needed.

The _pull_ in the back of Phil’s head seethed with rage and need, setting his heart to pounding with anticipation. Someone had _dared_ to touch his _match, to lay hands on his soul_ and _hurt_ him.

Someone was going to feel very, very sorry for that decision.

And he was going to get Clint back.

Perched on the lip of the shaft Phil counted time silently and stared down the tunnel.

Like clockwork, at the five minute mark the ground rocked with a distant explosion. Grinning, Phil silently saluted Natasha and May and swung himself down into the dark.

>>===>>

He reached the foot of the ladder in less than a minute and cracked a glowstick to illuminate the tight space at the bottom. Looking round, Phil quickly found a small smooth panel on the wall opposite the ladder and gave it a cautious push. The wall gave and opened a crack, letting in light from what looked like a corridor outside. The blare of alarms sounding filtered through, followed by the thunder of feet hurtling past his hiding place into the distance. After a few seconds of silence he peered through the crack and smiled tightly at the S.S.R. logo clearly visible on the wall outside. He was in.

Seeing that the corridor was otherwise empty Phil opened the wall wide enough to step through and pushed it closed behind him, making careful note of the exit’s position, just in case. 

Right. Where now?

From what he remembered these bases were reasonably small, just a few dozen rooms for storage, offices and accommodation as well as the vehicle bay which opened from the main entrance, but he would still have to move fast to get Clint out. With May and Natasha causing their own particular brands of havoc at the entrance he needed to find Clint before whoever was holding him decided to do something even more stupid than taking him in the first place had been. Because if he got more hurt... The thought sent anger shuddering through him again and he tensed, then quickened his step. 

The corridor ended in a junction and Phil paused, looking left and right. Both ways looked identical, no clue as to which direction was the way he wanted. Damn. He couldn’t afford to waste time! About to flip a mental coin, Phil realised he was being drawn to the right, the _pull_ seemingly urging him to go that way. Was it leading him to Clint? He’d never heard of the _pull_ working as a tracker, but there was a lot about their situation that he’d never heard of before. Who was he to argue with instinct? Sticking close to the wall, he went right.

Phil followed the drag of the pull for several more but froze at one corner when voices drifted round it.

“Guard this door!” One of the voices snapped, grating, petulant and vaguely…familiar? “He goes nowhere and nobody goes in here until I get back. Do not move, do you hear me? I don’t care if the whole building falls on you, you stay here and he goes nowhere. Got that?” 

“Yes sir.” A second voice answered the first before a door slammed and a set of feet stomped away. 

Phil smiled grimly. Apparently instinct was a winner, because a ‘he’ who needed specific guarding? Who else could it be? Carefully loosening his body language and shaking out the tension, Phil pasted on his best ‘blank and unassuming’ face and rounded the corner.

“Hey!” the guard on the door startled to see someone coming up behind him and spun to face Phil, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Oh, hi,” Phil kept walking steadily, spread his hands to show his empty palms, “Don’t worry about me, it’s fine.”

The guard frowned, as puzzled as Phil had hoped he would be and didn’t even raise his firearm even as Phil came closer, “You’re not supposed to be down here.”

Three more steps and Phil would be in touching distance. He telegraphed blank harmlessness, nodding along with the guard’s speech, “Sure, sure, it’s fine, I’m just heading out but I got turned around, can you show me the way out?”

“You don’t know it? Who are you anyway? I don’t know you…” Finally he seemed to sense the danger and probably would have raised the gun but it was too late because now he was within Phil’s reach. Phil snapped his hand out, jabbing the man sharply in the throat and when he lurched forward gasping, grabbed him by the shoulders and drove his knee up into his stomach to wind him again before finally spinning him round and wrapping an arm around his neck. In the end, the building hadn’t quite fallen on the guard but he probably wished it had. Luckily the strength of Phil’s chokehold meant that he didn’t have to think about it for too long. 

The second the guard’s eyes rolled back Phil dropped his hold and let him down in an unconscious and inelegant sprawl. Phil didn’t spare him another second’s thought. He couldn’t, couldn’t think of anything but the _pull_ screaming at him to open the door, open the door, _open the damn door_. It wasn’t even a thought process, blindly Phil reached for the handle and wrenched it open.

>>===>>

_Clint._

Oh, thank all the gods.

Clint, on his knees on the far side of the room, whipped his head up as Phil dived through the door and Phil’s first thought that his murderous glare was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was almost instantly proven wrong when Clint recognised him and sent him a grin that hit like a bullet to the head.

“Phil. Knew you’d come.”

“Of course I came,” Phil crossed the room and dropped to his knees at Clint’s side, grateful to get down before the relief made him fall down, “I said I would, didn’t I? Are you alright?”

“I’ve had better days, but not too bad. Especially now.” Clint lifted his arms behind him, “I’d say hello properly, but I’m a little bit tied up at the moment.”

“Damn.” Phil swore as chain clanked behind Clint. Chain? Who used chain these days? And people called him old-fashioned. He peered round to inspect the cuffs manacling Clint’s wrists and swore again. They were completely smooth and the links joining them to the wall were substantial and heavy. “No visible locks. I can’t pick those.”

“Fuck.” Clint agreed vehemently, “Typical. Look, maybe if you smash the lamp we can use the stand as a lever or something, or maybe even the chair, it looks substantial enough…Phil,” he broke off, “Why are you taking off your shoe?” 

“To get this.” Phil lifted up the insole inside his shoe and prised a small plastic tube with a thin nozzle out of the compartment hidden there. The contents glittered as he held it up to the light.

“Which is?”

Moving round behind Clint Phil inspected the cuffs again. “Acid.”

Clint jerked against the chain, “Acid?” he exclaimed “Phil, why in fuck’s name would you have acid in your shoe?”

“Relax, it only affects metal. One of R and D’s little tricks. Harmless to everything else or I wouldn’t be stupid enough to carry it. I’d have preferred the speed of lock picking, but needs must. Trust me. Lean forward.” Clint followed the order without question and Phil adamantly did not allow that to make his hands tremble, much as they might want to. Instead, he twisted off the top and carefully drew two thin lines across each cuff with the acid. Instantly the metal began to bubble, pits forming in the smooth surface even as the excess rolled harmlessly down Clint’s wrists. 

“There, that works.” He scooted back to face Clint again. “It’ll take a couple of minutes to eat through cuffs that thick though, maybe I should go and watch the door.” He made to rise but,

“No!” Clint stopped him, “I…just…just don’t, don’t go, okay?” 

The blatant need in Clint’s cry matched exactly the throb of Phil’s _pull_ and it set his legs in concrete. “I’d only be over there,” he protested weakly even as he felt himself swaying towards Clint, “I really should watch…”

“That’s too far, Phil, too fucking far.” Clint’s voice was thick and the way it curled around his name sent a shudder running through Phil. He leaned in again, unable to look away from Clint’s eyes even as his hand seemed to lift of its own volition, fingers curved to cup Clint’s cheek. He could feel Clint’s warmth glowing already on his skin as he drew closer and closer, scarcely able to believe that he could touch, could maybe hold, and even though he knew that now definitely wasn’t the time, that they were still so far from being in the clear, he also knew that there was no force in the whole damn universe that could stop him from making that contact. His hand just grazed Clint’s cheek, the promise of softness under the scratch of stubble, and

lightning.

It punched through Phil with a concussive whump that tightened his grip on Clint and at the same time threatened to knock him back clean onto his ass. He gasped, gaped, desperately sucking down air as his insides were picked up, shaken and rearranged, all in the space of a split second. The impact pulled his spine rigid, back arched into immobility even while his mind flailed madly to comprehend what in hell was happening, the only point of stability the feel of Clint under his palm.

Just as Phil thought he would surely collapse it receded as quickly as it came. 

What the hell had had that been? He swung his head wildly, looking for whoever or whatever had attacked them but there was still nobody but him and Clint in the room. 

Clint. 

Phil hauled in a breath and frantically dragged his eyes back to Clint who had his own eyes closed and was leaning forward into Phil’s shaking hand, breathing softly but steadily.

Gods, but he was a work of art. 

Happiness spread like syrup though Phil’s bones and he felt dazed by a bizarre sense of unreality. Here they were, stuck underground in some unknown bastard’s secret lair, Clint still chained up, the pair of them bound to be caught at any moment and yet he’d never felt more content. Even the usual yammering of the _pull_ had quieted, in fact it had almost gone…

Phil stiffened. Not almost gone, the _pull_ **had** gone, been replaced by this warm, blanketing sense of rightness, of security. His mouth dropped open, because that could only mean…

Phil’s shocked gasp apparently lifted Clint from his reverie and he opened his eyes, a huffed laugh escaping him as he took in Phil’s incredulous face.

“What?” he asked softly, smiling, “like you didn’t know I was yours already.”

>>===>>

“Mi...what?” Phil struggled for adequate words, “What…was that…did we…”

Clint nodded, “Think so.” 

He was still reeling from the implications “That we just…that that was…”

“Phil.” Clint cut through the white noise of shock, his words calm and precise, warm. “That was our _bind_. We just made our _bind_. We’re _soulbound_ now, you and me, I can feel it. Can’t you?”

It was a soft tightness, a welcome cage. “I…can,” Phil answered, still amazed, “but how? The ceremony, the words, we haven’t…”

Clint shook his head in fond exasperation, “Yeah, sure, because we’re so good at following the usual rules.” He smiled again, “When does a bind happen anyway? Even I know it’s the first touch after you both give full consent in public and mean it. And Phil, ‘I will come, I will find you and I will take you home and keep you forever if you’ll let me’? That sounds a lot like public consent to me.”

It did to Phil too, and he knew he’d meant it with his entire being. Slowly, he nodded, bringing his other hand up to graze Clint’s shoulder, “And you said, ‘Alright’”

A shiver of gooseflesh pebbled across Clint’s chest and he shuddered. “I did. And I meant it.”

A ripple though the new bond let Phil know the truth of that. “Damn,” he breathed in new delight, “we’re _soulbound_.”

“We are.”

For a long moment Phil just stared into Clint’s face, drank in the new knowledge of him and the perfect rightness of having him so close, before a thought occurred to him. “Do you…after everything, with, well. Everything. Do you mind?”

“Mind?” Clint laughed, “Jesus, no, Phil, this is the best news I’ve had in pretty much my whole life. I categorically do not mind. I am a little bit pissed, however, that I can’t touch you right now because if I could you would definitely be getting a hug, I swear.” 

“The cuffs!” Phil knelt back, away from Clint to peer behind him. Damn, he’d almost forgotten where they were! No wonder poets liked to write so much flowery verse about the all-consuming nature of _binding_ , suddenly it didn’t seem so much like hyperbole. But they absolutely had to focus. “The acid should have worked through by now, can you break them?”

“I don’t know, let me try.” Clint flexed his forearms, twisted his wrists, “I think they’re giving, just, hang on…” He braced and twisted suddenly, grunting as the left cuff finally broke along the acid lines with a sharp snap. “Got one. Give me a sec, almost there… Aw, no.” The right cuff shattered similarly, but only along one line, leaving it still circling Clint’s wrist. “Hang on, it’s almost going, let me just…” Clint froze suddenly, looking over Phil’s shoulder, eyes gone hard.

Damn.

>>===>>

“You won’t get them off you know.” The voice came from the doorway, the same squeaky, arrogant voice Phil had heard giving orders earlier, Those are level seven S.H.I.E.L.D. issue cuffs, biometrically locked to me. Only I can take them off. So, bad luck boys.”

Finally, Phil placed that irritating tone and he looked to Clint in disbelief. Clint’s mouth quirked in confirmation. “Yep. Samuels. He has a gun.”

“Indeed,” the voice agreed, “Samuels. And his gun. How strange. Of all the people to bring the ‘legendary’ Agent Coulson down, I wonder if you ever imagined it would be me? Destiny does have its funny little ways, doesn’t it? Stand up Coulson. I realise you and your soulmate were having a moment there, but I’m very much afraid that it’s over now. I said stand up, up and away from him.”

His back, Phil realised, was shielding much of Clint and Samuels couldn’t see that one of Clint’s hands, nearly two, was free. He quickly picked up the fallen cuff and pressed it into Clint’s hand, speaking to cover the quiet noise of the chain even as Clint nodded his understanding and artfully slumped forward, eyes flickering blearily.

“I have to say Samuels, no, I wouldn’t have imagined you. After I was done with the paperwork from your disastrous attempt at heading an op and your subsequent demotion I really never thought about you again at all. But,” chain now safely hidden behind Clint’s back, Phil stood and turned slowly, “if any Agent was going to end up hiding like a rat in a hole underground then I’m really not that surprised that it turned out to be you.”

Samuels sneered. “Oh, clever, clever Coulson. Always with the smart rejoinder, just like your little _match_ here. No doubt you’d be good for each other, it’s almost a shame you won’t get the chance to find out. Move.” 

He gestured sharply with the handgun pointing Phil over towards the desk. Phil glanced down at Clint who shook his head minutely. The other cuff hadn’t broken yet. Damn. Samuels noticed the pause and laughed. “Sweet. But he’s not going to be of any use to you right now. I’m sure that’s not a surprise. Just goes to show that Circus freaks should stay in the Big Top, shouldn’t they?”

Phil bit down a surge of rage and controlled his tongue, speaking as calmly as he could manage. “What exactly are you hoping to achieve here Samuels? You might have noticed that your base is under significant attack. It would be easier to surrender.”

“Maybe, but now I’ve got you, I don’t have to do I? I came back for a hostage, assuming anyone would care about him, but you’re a much better prospect. I don’t know how you found this place but it’s obvious you didn’t come in with however many teams you’ve sent to my front door. So. Now you can show me whatever sneaky way got in and we’ll use it to get out. And then I can present you to my employer and see what information they can get out of you. I would have enjoyed doing it myself, but perhaps they’ll let me watch. So, come over here.”

“Now that plan doesn’t seem like it would be conducive to my continuing good health,” Phil cocked his head to one side, considering Samuels, buying as much time as possible. His heart thudded steadily and he kept his voice level. “so why exactly should I do that?”

Samuels took a step forward and brandished the gun again, hissing, “Because if you don’t then you’ll have to watch me shoot out your freak’s knees before I kill him. In the long term I suppose it won’t make any difference but I doubt it would be pretty to see. Now move! I’ve no desire to let your other friends find us.”

“Touch my soulmate,” the words snapped out of Phil with the force of blows, “And there won’t be anything left of you for them to find. I will see to that personally.”

Samuel’s face twisted in derision. “You’re all talk Coulson. You S.H.I.E.L.D. lackeys all are, blindly following Fury’s protocols. I could do whatever I wanted and you’d still have to go by the book and take me in for questioning. So don’t make empty threats.”

“I’ll concede, usually, you’d be right.” Phil reached into his top jacket pocket and pulled out his S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card. It flexed then gave in his hands as he snapped it once, twice, three times. Fixing Samuels with an iron glare he dropped the pieces pointedly to the floor where they clattered, strangely loud even against the clamour of the still sounding alarms. “But for you, I would gladly make an exception.”

Samuels paled a little and swallowed, but quickly regained his bluster, “Very dramatic Coulson, I’m sure your show boy is impressed. But I’m not, because you seem to have forgotten that I’m the one holding the gun and any more messing about on your part will just earn him extra pain. Now, get over here.”

Steadily Phil walked over to Samuels, allowed him to turn him and wrench one hand up behind his back, to press the gun muzzle to his temple. On the floor Clint hung in the shackles, groaning softly, his eyes unfocussed. Samuels smirked, sickly smug. “It looks like he’s going to miss you Coulson. But never mind, he won’t have to worry about it for long. I’d let you say a fond goodbye before the bullet but I think we’ve stayed quite long enough, don’t you?” Feeling Phil tense he laughed and pulled him round just enough to sneer into his face “Oh, don’t feel bad Coulson, you did a decent enough job of stalling for time but it looks like your team just aren’t going to make it. Shame.”

“Oh, I wasn’t stalling for my team,” Phil smiled.

Samuels blinked, blanched. “You weren’t?”

“No.” Phil shook his head and let the smile spread, dark and humourless, “Samuels, you stupid bastard. You never should have taken your eyes off the Hawk.”

“What?” Samuels snapped his head back round to Clint, now kneeling bolt upright and pulling against the chain with an evil grin that glittered the very match of Phil’s own, “No!”

Phil felt next few moments as a sharp scatter of details. 

The slow arc of Samuels’ gun as it curved through the air towards Clint’s head…

The metallic click of the second cuff finally shattering…

The bunch and flex of Clint’s arms, lunging forward to scoop up the fallen pieces of badge…

The tiny tightening of Clint’s brow as he focussed…

The impotent squeak of Samuels’ heel against the concrete as he spun, just that little bit too slowly…

The power in the snap of Clint’s wrists, the light flickering along the razor edges of the plastic, the faintest whisper of air against Phil’s cheek…

The pitch and volume of Samuels’ squeal as he fell to the floor, writhing and clutching at the shards protruding from the bloody socket that had once been his eye.

Time snapped abruptly back into place at the sound and Phil stepped forward to kick Samuels once, neatly and sharply, in the temple, cutting him off mid-shriek. He fell abruptly limp, breathing shallowly and muttering incoherently, blood and fluid still oozing steadily from between his clamped fingers. For a second, Phil stood over him with clenched fists, trying very hard to remember exactly why one hit had to be enough for this bastard, fighting the urge to give the rage free rein.

“Snap lines.” Clint’s disbelieving voice came from behind and startled him out of the trance.

“What?”

“You carved goddamn snap lines into your own ID badge.” Phil turned to see Clint still on his knees, staring at the remaining shards in his palm, poking at them with a mixture of glee and horror. From one, a fragment of Phil’s trademark thin smile still curved up at him. “Actual snap lines.”

Phil nodded, bizarrely embarrassed, “Yes, well,” he shrugged, “I found out the last time that if you don’t the damn pieces don’t exactly fly straight. They were much more use as distraction until I found my letter opener. But it worked this time. You didn’t even need the rubber band.”

Clint groaned, “Rubber band. Rubber band for fuck’s sake…I might have. Jesus Phil, I might have, and if I’d missed…” 

“You never miss.” The words were out before Phil could think about them. But then again, he didn’t really need to. “I knew you wouldn’t miss.”

Clint flushed and looked away, grimacing when he saw Samuels, “Is he properly out? Help me up so I can make sure…” He lurched wobbily to his feet, and sucked in a hiss, “Ow, ow, changed my mind, help me down. Fuck, my leg hurts.”

“Here.” Phil hurried over and helped him across onto the chair. Clint’s skin was frigid under his hands and as soon as he was sitting Phil stripped off his jacket and stood to spread it over him, “Take this, you’re freezing.” He smoothed the fabric out across Clint’s back. The jacket didn’t exactly fit, but it would do for a moment and then they would have to get moving. He began picturing the route they would have to take but lost his train of thought completely when Clint wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him tight so that he could press his face into Phil’s belly. 

“Thank you Phil,” Clint’s voice was muffled by Phil’ shirt, “for coming.”

Phil stood in Clint’s hold, immobilised by surprise and the need to hold himself together. If he gave in to everything he was feeling, if he held Clint now then they would never, ever make it out of this base because he would never be able to take his hands off him again. Throat suddenly thick, he swallowed hard, “Of course. Clint, I’m…” he choked back the ‘so sorry’ that threatened again because this still wasn’t the time, damn it, or the place for that kind of discussion. Instead he hovered one hand over Clint’s damp hair, “I had to come Clint.” It was the truth, as best he could tell it, “Had to.”

“Oh.” Clint’s grip on Phil tightened, just a fraction and then he let it drop. “Oh, right. That’s good.” His voice was strange, almost sounding dismayed, though Phil had no idea why that might be, and for a second something that Phil couldn’t quite place flickered across his face. Something almost, broken, but Clint buried it quickly with a deep breath and straightened up, determination written new in every line of his shoulders, “Alright then. Time to go?”

The glint was coming back in his eye and it made Phil’s heart jump. “If you’ve had enough of your surprise weekend away. Can you manage? If I help?”

“Of course I can,” Clint answered, mock affronted, “I’m the Amazing Hawkeye.” He was clearly pasting glitter over cracks, but there wasn’t really any choice but to take him at his word. 

“Never doubted it.”

Clint nodded across at the sprawled form of Samuels “What about him?”

“Him I am not really interested in helping.” He had to push down his reluctance, but Phil managed to pull away from Clint to grab hold of Samuels and drag him across to the wall where Clint had been restrained. Wrapping the remains of the chain round Samuels forearm and digging in his trouser pockets, he began to fasten it up.

“Phil, that’s a chain, you can’t tie someone up with a chai….oh. My bad. Apparently you can.”

“You can tie someone up with anything if you’ve got enough zip-ties.” Phil said, pointedly ignoring the way that comment made Clint smirk, “short of breaking his own arm he won’t be causing us any more trouble and given that he won’t bleed to death just yet he can wait here for the clean-up team to arrive. Much as I would like to ask him some very pointed questions right now, I have to get you out of here first.” He held out his hand. “Ready?”

There was that fractured look again and Clint’s eyes slid away from him before he took the offered hand, but before Phil could analyse Clint had levered himself up. “More than.” Although he flinched when he tested his weight to the leg, he stayed upright and waved Phil’s concern off, “It’s not so bad, honestly. Alright. I have had enough of this dump. Let’s go.”

>>===>>

Progress down the corridors was slow with Clint moving in a sort of shuffling hop as Phil scouted ahead but it didn’t seem to matter too much. Despite the alarms, everything in the base was eerily quiet. 

When they passed the third pile of bodies, unconscious and broken in assorted ways, Clint whistled. “Fuck, Phil, this is crazy. How many people did you bring? Aw, leg, no, _fuck it_.” he broke off, hissing through his teeth. One of the bodies had begun to stir and as he’d kicked it back into unconsciousness he’d leaned too heavily on his bad leg, leaving him flinching and grabbing at the wall for support. Phil frowned back over his shoulder but Clint was unrepentant. “What? I’m the one who got kidnapped and shot, I think I should be allowed to kick _someone_.”

“You can kick people when you have two functional legs.” Phil moved over to brace him and tried to ignore the way Clint half melted into his side. And the way his jacket looked slung over Clint’s broad shoulders, the arms tied together like some refined English cricketer or a kid playing superheroes. 

It should have been a ridiculous look. 

It was not. 

“Do you need five? We are taking five. And then…”

“I know, I know, we ‘have to get out of here’. You keep saying it.” There was a bitter note in Clint’s voice suddenly and he made to pull away. Phil put it down to the pain and tried to shoulder more of Clint’s weight. At first Clint resisted, then he leaned in and sighed. “Seriously though, how many? Because if Fury decides to take this rescue out of my wages I am pretty much going to be working for S.H.I.E.L.D. until I’m, like, a hundred and two or something. And as much as I like the canteen food I’m not sure how many fun assignments there will be for agents in adult diapers.”

Phil snorted, “Three.”

“What?” 

“Three. Unless the clean-up team has already arrived, there are three of us. And one quinjet. Not so costly. So I think your diapered years should be safe. ”

“ _Three?_ ” Clint snarled, low and deadly, “you came down here with three agents? Three agents Phil? _Three?_ ”

“Well, two. I make up the three.” Clint’s eyes flashed murderous again and Phil flinched, “I had to move quickly Clint, and they were quickest to move. I said I was coming and I wasn’t about to wait for a full team to assemble. I…couldn’t.”

Clint growled, “As soon as I can get this leg under me, I am going to kick your ass so hard, don’t think I won’t.”

Phil believed him, but what other option had there been? “In my defence, the two I brought were May and Natasha. If that helps?”

“It certainly explains the piles of bodies.” Clint scrubbed a hand over his face, movements tight. Then abruptly he dropped it and turned to Phil in horror “Jesus Phil, you introduced Nat to Melinda? Oh, they’re gonna want all kinds of favours for this. Those two together? Fuck, you might just have doomed the planet.”

Phil nodded, “Or saved the universe. Either way they should be securing our exit out the front door, so you can offer your favours there.”

“Time to move?” Clint grimaced.

Phil nodded agreement. “Time to move.” 

>>===>>


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know, I said that this was going to be the last chapter, but it appears that I have no control over these boys at all. They just wanted to do things I hadn't planned to write but that I really hope you'll enjoy reading. 
> 
> The next one will be the ending, it really will. (this makes me both happy and sad)
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

It was a long drag of seemingly endless corridors and a particularly unhelpful ladder down from a gantry but finally Phil and Clint made it down into the vehicle bay. A couple of jeeps slumped haphazardly on slashed tyres and there were yet more uniformed guards down and scattered against the walls but no absolutely no obstacles between them and the light shining through their exit, the hole May and Romanov had blown in the outer wall. Phil would have wobbled with relief if he hadn’t been the one holding Clint up. 

During the last few minutes of walking Clint had gotten slower, started to stagger and slur his words a little and after the cold, the shock, lack of food or sleep, the beating he’d taken and the dwindling adrenaline rush leaving his system, the ladder had almost been the last straw. Even Clint’s impressive arms had trembled under the strain of getting down safely without using his injured leg too much and it had been too narrow for Phil to offer much help. But now they were almost there, the door was right there, he almost had Clint out, almost had him out and May and Natasha would be there, the quinjet would be there, they were so close, so close to being out.

“Come on Clint, come on, not far now,” he helped Clint lean against the hood of one of the damaged jeeps, taking a quick breath before the last push. “We’re almost there.”

And they were, thank god, Phil almost had him safe.

“Coulson! Cooooooulsooooooon….” The sudden, high-pitched, almost sing-song, call echoed down through the bay and Phil’s stomach plummeted as he turned. 

Looking down at them was a vision straight from a nightmare.

On the gantry Samuels stood, eye socket gaping, gore and matter streaking down his face and riming his teeth where they were bared in a manic grin. His left shoulder hung loose and awkward, the limb trailing from it completely the wrong shape because apparently ‘short of breaking his own arm’ hadn’t been short enough. Dark stains dotted his shirt and more blood slid down his wrist, pooling to drip unnoticed through the metal grilling. 

But as horrific as that all was, it was the gun in his other hand that really caught Phil’s attention, especially as it was pointed unwaveringly in their direction. Shit. Phil roundly cursed himself and his damned _bind_ -drunk short-sightedness because _why_ had he ever left the damned gun in that damned room? So concerned with holding everything together emotionally he’d missed the most obvious of the practical and made what very well be a fatal error.

Behind, Clint levered himself upright and groaned, “Seriously? This piece of shit again?” 

Phil could not have agreed more.

“Coooulsooon!” the call was sticky, bubbling with blood, “Did you really think you would just get be able walk out of here with your circus trash and get yourself a happy ever after? That it would be that easy?” 

Well, yes, actually he had rather been hoping that. Phil glanced quickly round, looking for weapons or cover or, fuck it, anything, anything at all that would be fucking _useful_.

On the gantry Samuels giggled, a lunatic, nerve-shredding screech. “Well, my apologies to you both, but that just can’t happen. You see, my new employers are particularly picky about their people being ‘achievers’, and I can’t go to them empty handed.”

Nothing. Not one thing. Nothing to throw, nothing to shoot, no way to get to any of the guns lying with the guard’s bodies, not even time to get them both to cover on the other side of the jeep, not with Clint’s leg and _fuck_ there was no way he would leave him.

“Corpses aren’t exactly as much use as informants, but I think it’s important to show willing, don’t you? And perhaps it will be enough in my favour that I’ve removed two of Fury’s favourite assets.” Samuels waved the pistol and grated out another sniggering laugh, “So, the important question now is, who goes first? Who should I be _kind_ to? Who wants to feel their go words _crossed_ before the end and who just wants to _die_?” He swung the muzzle between the two of them, grinning like a death’s head, “Oh! It’s so hard to decide!”

But for Phil there was no decision. 

There was no way out and only one plan of action, one thing left that he could do. He had to buy whatever time he could and put the only thing he could between Clint and the bullet. Even if it was himself.

He turned to Clint, hoping that his eyes would show Clint what he was feeling rather than what he was planning, and was in time to see Clint pushing himself free of the jeep, balancing on uneven feet and apparently bracing to do exactly the same thing. 

Phil’s heart broke, he actually, physically, felt it tear and he shook his head vehemently, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _fucking dare._ ”

Clint shifted his weight to his toes, his smile unbearably sweet and hard, “Try and stop me.”

“How adorable.” Samuels sneered from above, “Of course, ultimately pointless. Neither of you is getting out of here alive. But have it your way.” He sighed theatrically, “Shall we see who is fastest? Have a little race perhaps? On the count of three then. One…two…”

Phil jumped. 

Phil jumped, and Clint jumped and two shots snapped out almost simultaneously.

And it was Samuels who fell. 

The hole in his forehead bloomed as crimson as the one in his heart as he crumpled back on the gantry, hit the rail and toppled, smacking wetly into the concrete below from where he did not move again.

Clint and Phil, crashing into and clutching each other, staggered clumsily round to see two figures outlined in the doorway they’d been trying so hard to reach, two guns raised. May was smirking even as she stepped out of the light, “He talked too much.” She made her way across the bay towards them and Natasha followed, nodding.

“Agreed. Almost monologuing. Embarrassing.” 

Still tangled with Phil, Clint grinned even as his knee buckled and he swayed, almost taking them both down. Phil helped him to lean back against the hood again. “Phil,” he gasped, “I’ve changed my mind, good call, two agents was plenty.”

“Of course it was Tiny Hawk,” Natasha had reached them and bent to give Clint a once-over, “Although it helped that he chose at least one who also wanted you back almost as much as he did.” Apparently satisfied that Clint wasn’t in immediate danger, she turned to Phil. “Base secure, sir. Second team has arrived and are moving into position.”

“Thank you Agent Romanov, much appreciated.” Phil managed, “Though when we get back to the Triskellion please remind me to refresh your training on our capture and interrogation policy. We generally prefer to ask questions of our enemies before they’re turned into jam.” He tried to give the words his best ‘senior agent’ tone but Natasha’s raised eyebrow told him she wasn’t buying it in the slightest, 

“Of course sir. Though in fairness, he was threatening a senior agent.”

“Noted.” Phil’s mouth twitched and he craned round to look at May, “And as for you, Melinda…”

“Me personally? I’m going to plead self defence.” May said, calmly moving round to Phil’s front to straighten his tie and brush dust off his shoulders, “Because honestly, watching in silence while you agonise about Clint all this time has been bad enough, I can’t imagine how it would be if you’d actually lost him. So I defended myself from dealing with that.” 

“You just had to watch?” Natasha deadpanned, “I actually had to listen to the agonising. The first time was sweet enough I suppose, but by the twenty-second it had become a little more…”

Clint groaned, deep and heartfelt, “Doomed the planet Phil, totally doomed the planet.”

“Indeed.” Phil agreed. He offered Clint his hand again and pulled him back up and into the now familiar half-hold. “So. Ladies, if you’ve quite finished eviscerating both our dignities, I believe that somewhere there’s a quinjet with our names on it. You can handle the clean-up?”

“Absolutely sir.” May replied, in a tone that suggested she was having entirely too much fun at his expense. “Leave it with us.” All at once her face softened, and she leaned in to press a her palm to his cheek like a benediction, “I’m so pleased for you Phil. Both of you. Get out of here.”

>>===>>

On the quinjet Phil readied Clint for take off, quickly finding him food, drink, painkillers. Clint’s leg was a mess of blood and matted fabric that he decided to leave for experts to deal with. At least it wasn’t bleeding right now. Clint threw back the pills gratefully and managed half a protein shake before he started to yawn uncontrollably.

“Here.” Phil drew him across to a flight bench, piled high with blankets, “They’re standard issue so more functional than soft but they should keep you warm.”

Clint snorted, “Phil, after where I’ve just been, these look like paradise.” He lay down and burrowed in, making himself a nest until only his face was showing outside the swathes of material and screwed up his eyes on another face-cracking yawn.

Phil hovered, suddenly unsure where he should be. He wanted, more than anything to climb onto the padded bench and huddle in beside Clint but that would be impractical, the bench was narrow, and besides, Clint needed the space. He’d had a shitty day and a half, he was injured and Phil ought to leave him to sleep. Go up front. Start his paperwork. At the very least stop standing here and staring like a crazy person. 

Any moment now, and he’d move his feet.

Aaaaannnnyyyy moment now…

He sighed. It was no good, he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. The new _bind_ between them was still too fresh, too tender and too bruised from its rough beginning to let him go even a few feet away and he felt sick when he even thought about trying. 

Fuck it. 

Carefully, Phil perched on the end of the bench, making sure he was close enough to Clint to feel near him but not so close as to disturb him. It wasn’t quite perfect but he thought, circumstances taken into account, it would have to be enough. 

Clint, however, apparently had a different opinion. The second Phil’s butt hit the bench he lurched clumsily upwards, throwing one arm across Phil’s legs and dragging himself over and out of his nest of covers until his head was resting on Phil’s thigh. Phil sat stunned as he twisted and shifted in the blankets before settling with a contented sigh, apparently happy with his new pillow. Phil had to smile. Trust Clint to make himself comfortable. Not that Phil was complaining. Cautiously, daringly reaching out, chest thumping, he ruffled Clint’s hair gently. 

“I said thank you, didn’t I?” Clint’s voice was thick with weariness and muffled by the fabric of Phil’s trousers. “I think I did, but just in case, thank you. For deciding to come after me.”

“You did.” Phil ghosted one finger gently across Clint’s forehead, down past his ear, over his jaw, and tried not to focus on exactly how thrilling that tiny contact was, especially given that Clint was now in his lap. “And it wasn’t exactly a decision. I really didn’t have a choice.”

“Hmmm.” Clint hummed, sleepily, somehow sadly, turning and scrunching his eyes tighter, “I know that. But Phil, just for now, stay, yeah? While I sleep?”

“Of course I will. Rest.” Phil rested his hand on Clint’s shoulder, let his thumb stroke gently on the tiny sliver of skin peeking out of the blankets. “I’m not going anywhere.” Suddenly compelled he added, “I should have said this before, should have _done_ this before, but I plan to always be here for you from now on Clint, you know that? Always.”

But Clint was already asleep.

>>===>>

The change in air pressure woke Phil from a light doze, letting him know they were descending on their approach to the Triskellion. Blinking his eyes clear he looked down at Clint who was still curled warmly in his lap and then blinked again. In his sleep Clint had wriggled clear of the blankets and the revealed acres of smooth golden skin that covered his arms and the strong planes of his shoulders were enough to make Phil catch his breath. So gorgeous and so vulnerable like this, and yet so relaxed. Phil didn’t exactly feel worthy of such trust. His eye travelled across Clint’s back, down his arm and then the _bond_ was practically singing because there were Clint’s words, running his inner forearm, straight as an arrow and so red. So very, very _red_ and _real_ and _right_ and for maybe the first time Phil thought that perhaps his destiny wasn’t so badly planned out after all if it had brought him here, if it had brought him, them, to this. It was everything he’d finally chosen for himself, now it was all wrapped up with this incredible sense of destiny, connection. He really must be the luckiest man breathing, and he couldn’t wait to get Clint home and tell him so. To apologise, and to explain, and to just _be_. With his soulmate.

The jet jolted as the wheels touched down on the Trisk’s roof and Phil gave himself a mental shake. That could come later. First, they would have to get off the base.

“Clint.” He shook Clint’s shoulder. “Clint, come on. Time to wake up.”

Clint stirred and peered blearily up. “Already?”

“Already.” Phil nodded, “You’ve been out for hours. We’re back at the Trisk.”

Instantly, Clint blanched and sat bolt upright, already talking quickly even while he was still wincing. “Aw, shit. I, I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” He lifted a hand, scrubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly then snatched a breath and started to gabble, “Look, Phil, I just wanted to say…I mean…I know this is weird but it doesn’t have to, you know, change anything.”

“What doesn’t?” Phil frowned, Clint sounded so earnest, so determined, speaking fast like he was ripping off a bandaid and Phil had no idea what he was talking about.

“This, us, the _bind_ …I know it kinda came out of nowhere, and I’m not expecting... I don’t want there to be…trouble for it. For you. I don’t…just, things can stay the same, you know? How they were, before. Between us, if that’s better…”

What was he saying? “Clint, I don’t understand.”

Clint scowled, “I just…” but whatever he’d been going to say was cut off by the crackle of comms as the pilot interrupted;

“Sir, Director Fury is coming on board.”

Even before he finished the sentence the bay door opened and in strode Fury, coat flying, eye blazing and brandishing a tablet and a handful of papers that Phil was fairly certain he recognised. Phil’s reflexes kicked in, muscle memory taking him almost to attention as Fury fixed him with a gimlet stare. 

“Agent Coulson. You care to explain this shit?”

“Yes sir.” Phil nodded smartly, “Agent Barton was deployed as part of a training exercise being run by Agent May…”

“Not that.” Fury cut him off with a curt wave of his hand. He stalked over and sat at the bench opposite Clint and Phil. “Sit.” As soon as Phil did, Fury yanked an equipment case into the space between them and laid out the tablet and papers he was carrying. “ _This_ shit.” He stabbed a finger into the smallest piece of paper. “Specifically why I come back from a perfectly nice breakfast and find this waiting to upset my digestion.”

Phil had been right, he had recognised them. Of course, it was the papers he’d left on Fury’s desk, right down to the personal note. He steeled himself. “I think it’s fairly self-explanatory sir.”

“Oh you do, do you? And you stand by what you wrote here?”

“I do.”

Fury glowered. “Even though I’m given to understand that this issue is no longer even an issue for you personally? You really want to kick that hornet’s nest?”

That made him blink a little, but doing the right thing was doing the right thing. “The issue is still an issue sir, whether it is personal or not. And if I get stung, then I get stung.” 

Between Phil’s implacably folded arms and Fury’s glare, there was a long moment of tense silence. It should have been predictable that it was Clint who broke it. “You know, I didn’t have my universal translator chip installed yet so any time you two want to stop with the riddles would be just about fine with me. Anyone want to drop the spy-code and tell me what you’re talking about?” 

Fury rounded on him. “Agent Barton, nice of you to join the conversation. Perhaps you can help me out here. What I am talking about is the three lovely little pieces of paperwork I found unexpectedly on my desk earlier.” He pushed each over towards Clint in turn. “One, a very thorough re-working of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Soulmate Code of Conduct paying particular attention to the issue of unrequited _finds_ and allowing for any agents who are Unrequited, subject to passing psych eval. and field testing, to be able to interact and work with their soulmates.”

Beside him, Phil felt Clint go very still.

“The second is an official S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Notice of Intention to Terminate Employment. The agency resignation form. Completed in full, signed by Agent Phillip J Coulson and effective immediately. And finally, this is a personal note from the said Phillip Coulson telling me that I have to choose between the two. Change all the rules or lose my best agent and my friend.” He leaned back and glowered at Clint, “So, Agent Barton, tell me, what exactly do you make of that?”

“When.” Clint sounded choked and when Phil looked he saw lines of strain on his face that somehow put a massive pressure in his own chest, “When was that filled in?”

Fury’s voice dropped to a lower, gentler note. “Yesterday morning Agent Barton. Around nine am.”

“That...” Clint stumbled, looking quickly from Fury to Phil and back again, “But that was, that would have been before…”

Fury nodded affirmation, “Before you made your _find_. Before you and Agent Coulson _matched_. Yes.”

“Oh Jesus. Jesus H fucking Christ.” Clint dropped his head into his hands, covering his face. After a moment, his shoulders began to shake. 

The pressure in Phil’s chest dropped but in its place panic rose swift and slick in up his throat because, fuck, was Clint crying? He was actually crying. Why? And what was Phil supposed to do? How could he make this better?

“Clint?” Phil reached out and touched Clint’s shoulder, feeling the tremors wracking through him and almost drowning in the tsunami of guilt, “Clint, please…” and then Clint was unfolding, facing him and it was maybe going to be alright because Clint wasn’t crying at all, he was _laughing_ , laughing hard enough to make tears gather in his eyes and smiling at Phil and his smile was _brilliant_.

“You came back.” Clint demanded, “Before. Before all this. You came back for me. Didn’t you?” He wiped a quick hand across his face. “Damn, Phil. You were…I thought…I’d started to think…I mean, I heard you on the comm., which was this huge fucking shock, but all I could think was what you were suddenly _risking_ for me and what that might mean and then my find happened and I was so damn happy. I mean, you’re this crazy hot badass who also happened to be my best friend and now my soulmate? Beyond awesome. Of course everything got fucked up but I was still happy because we’d _matched_ and you were coming. Then I felt the _pull_ and it was so strong, stronger than I could have imagined and when you came you just kept saying that you’d ‘had to’, that you’d had no choice but to come’ and even though we had the _bind_ , I couldn’t help part of me thinking that maybe it was just that you’d come for, not really for me, but because of that, because…” Clint’s speech trailed off, and he stared at Phil, willing him to fill in the blanks.

Understanding finally dawned. 

“No. Oh, god, no.” Phil, horrified with sudden realisation, blurted, almost tripping over his tongue with the need to _say everything_ , “You thought I’d just come for you because of the _pull_ , the... ” His voice cracked, “Damn, Clint, _no_.” Desperately he twisted in his seat, leaning towards Clint and willing him, willing him to listen. “I’m bad at this. I said I had to because, fuck, Clint, _I had to_. There was no way I could have not. I’ll tell you now, this last week without you? Worst week of my life. Christ Clint, I didn’t mean for you to think that you were some sort of obligation. You’re not, you never have been, not ever, and I am so, so sorry if I ever let you think otherwise.” 

Just for an instant Phil pressed his eyes shut, paused, gathered his thoughts and arranged them as plainly as he could manage, because as anxious as he was to say what needed saying, this time he was going to say it right. Reaching out carefully he took Clint’s hand and huffed heavily in relief when Clint let him. He held it, warm but lax, as he carried on, “Clint. You were right. You were always right. I had come back. I was already here at the Trisk before the op went bad, looking for you, to tell you that you were right, that it didn’t matter if we _matched_. I realised that being with you was worth any risk and I’d come to ask your forgiveness, ask for another chance.” He squeezed Clint’s hand, hoping the strength of his grip would pass on the truth of his words, “I was terrified that day, Clint, terrified, but I should never have left. And I swear, if you’ll have me, I will never, ever leave you behind again. You are my soul. You have been for a long time. And I was yours well before your flare went off, still am and from now on I will try and prove it to you everyday, every single day…”

“Hey, hey, enough, I hear you, Phil,” Clint cut in softly, “I hear you. And come on, it wasn’t all your fault we both could have done better. But you don’t have to prove anything to me, not now.” Twisting gently free of Phil’s grip he pulled his hand back but before Phil could react he was taking Phil’s instead, pressing it reassuringly between both of his. His fingers curving around Phil’s wrist were grounding, possessive. “I believe you. Can feel it. It’s good Phil. This. The _bind_ I mean, it’s good. Isn’t it?” The nebulous something that lay between them rippled with a mutual wave of warmth and affection, heat and want that tingled right down to Phil’s toes, making him judder pleasantly.

“It’s good.” Phil wrapped his free hand round Clint’s arm, slid his palm over to cover where Clint’s words glowed, and smiled, “It is very, very good.” 

In the silence that followed Phil became acutely aware of how warm the air was getting between them, of how close they were, of how if he was just to move just the tiniest, tiniest bit, then Clint’s lips would be right there…Hypnotised, Phil felt himself start to lean, to inch the merest bit closer and…

“You two have completely forgotten that I’m still here, haven’t you?” 

Phil jerked perhaps a foot in the air and, when he had remembered how to breathe, scowled at Fury, who snorted. 

“Yeah, totally forgotten. Then that should be everything.” Fury waved the form at Phil, “Agent Coulson, I’ll be tearing up this shit and I don’t expect anything like it to ever darken my door again. This however,” he indicated the tablet, “will be implemented immediately. It’s good Phil, and long overdue. If I’d known exactly what it would take to get you to sort this out then I would have arranged a kidnapping of my own months ago.”

Phil startled at that implication and Fury snorted again, “Oh come on Cheese, the day I don’t know who’s crawling around in my own vents is the day you can take out my other eye. Not that it wasn’t a concern at first. I trust you Phil, but letting Barton into your office was the first time you’d broken S.H.I.E.L.D. conduct code outside an in-field crisis, not to mention the first time you didn’t come straight to me to explain yourself. So I’ll admit to being concerned. But as soon as I realised that neither of you was going to go postal on me, it became fairly obvious that you’d work well together. 

“To be honest, I expected you’d figure out some way round your ‘relationship’ that would make you happy and would let me put two of my best agents in the field as a team but I didn’t expect the pair of you to be so damn stubborn about it. And I will tell you freely that while Maria might be all about ‘letting people work things out for themselves’ and ‘free will’ and ‘Nick, you can’t control the whole universe’, I myself am an impatient bastard, I hate loose threads and I prefer to be able to play with my toys. So you can bear that in mind next time you decide to have any kind of emotional crisis, and get your shit together quicker.”

Phil suspected very strongly that he was having an out of body experience or stress-induced hallucination, and from the look of it Clint was feeling much the same. He was also fairly certain that Fury was laughing at them. He fell back on sarcasm, “I didn’t realise you were such a romantic Nick.”

“Romantic be damned,” Fury was scowling but he definitely had a certain twinkle in his eye. “I needed a new Code, one you would fully support and that would allow me to put you both where you belong. And, for all that the damn contrary universe has arranged things to mean that you don’t actually need it now, I finally have one. So.” and here was the Director’s voice again, “Agent Coulson, I’m taking you off standard duty rota and from now on you’re going to be handling Strike Team Delta, otherwise known as Agents Barton and Romanov. You can consider it either your punishment for the amount of rules your little coffee meetings infringed, or your just reward for excellent service. It will be up to you which you make of it.”

Clint was still holding Phil’s hand and he squeezed it hard. Phil squeezed back, glad of the anchor against this sudden flood of relief and good news. He wasn’t going to have to resign, Clint was still apparently with him _and_ he was getting what amounted to a dream posting? Was he sure he was actually awake? Fury, however, apparently hadn’t finished.

“So, now that I’m happy, and feeling generous I’m going to share the joy and grant the pair of you a week of leave before we begin Strike Team drills, starting immediately upon your clearance by medical. And as a small gift from me on the occasion of your _bind_ , may I offer my sincere congratulations to you both, blah blah blah, S.H.I.E.L.D. movers are already emptying Agent Barton’s room and installing his junk in Agent Coulson’s apartment. I know how new _binds_ can be and that should save you a job, don’t say I never give you anything. Unless,” and he paused theatrically, as if something new had just occurred to him, “unless I’ve read this wrong and you’ll be needing S.H.I.E.L.D. to find you a new place with a bedroom each? If this is a platonic _bind_?”

An icy wind shocked down Phil’s spine and his brain blanked out a little. Because, he realised, he hadn’t asked, he’d just presumed that Clint felt like he did about that side of things, and that wasn’t right, that wasn’t fair, he should…

“Oh for god’s sake.” Sliding closer Clint pressed the length of his body up against Phil’s side, “It’s not. This is abso-fucking-lutely not a platonic _bind_ , okay?” He bumped his shoulder against Phil gently, “Idiot.” he said and the word was fond but with such a promise of heat behind it that Phil felt himself flush.

“Once again I’ll remind you I am still here Agent Barton,” Fury coughed dramatically, “try to spare my blushes? Fine. I have said everything I need to say, do either of you feel the need to make any further heartfelt and honest declarations?” He glared at the pair of them but neither Phil nor Clint moved a muscle. “Good. Then my work here is done.” Standing, he gave them a smile that was all Nick, “Clint, Cheese, I hope you’ll be extremely happy together. Now, here comes your medical escort, get your asses off my jet, get checked and get out of here and on your leave before I change my mind.” The smile widened into an evil grin, “But do get some rest, the real hard work starts next week, motherfuckers.”

And with one last smirk the Director turned in a theatrical swirl of leather and swept past the arriving medical team as they came up the ramp, striding away without looking back, a flock of junior minions already dogging his heels. 

Phil stared after him, almost dizzy from the rollercoaster of this extremely bizarre day. 

Clint coughed. “Erm, did he just…?” 

“Totally set us up to declare all our emotions, clear up every misunderstanding and clarify our relationship beyond any shadow of a doubt?” Phil finished for him. 

Clint looked just as dazed as Phil felt. “Yes.”

“Then yes, I think he did.”

“Oh.”

Phil shook his head, torn between wonder and incredulity, “Our director is a manipulative troll.”

“Yup.” Clint paused, then shrugged. “But I think your friend Nick means well. And, I guess, well, did you say anything you didn’t mean?” 

The answer came without any need for thought. “Not one word.” 

Clint rewarded him with another brilliant smile, “Me neither. So in the end I can’t say as I really give much of a damn about Fury’s motivations.” He waved at the medical team, “ And look! My chariot awaits.” Giving Phil’s hand one last squeeze he let go and hopped across the jet to bounce down into the wheelchair they’d brought “Let’s go.” The team just stood and stared, all apparently stupefied by his uncharacteristic willingness to submit to treatment. Clint laughed and spun to begin wheeling himself down the ramp. “The sooner we get cleared by medical then the sooner we are out of here.” Holding out a hand he looked up coquettishly through his absurdly long lashes and beckoned, “Come on Phil, take me home.”

Now that sentiment, whether it had come about by destiny, design, a huge helping of luck or perhaps even a little of everything, was one Phil could definitely get on board with. He was moving before he knew it. 

“Not platonic?” he asked Clint slowly, raising an eyebrow.

Clint grinned, all white teeth and wickedly glittering eyes. “Not even the tiniest bit.” 

Now Phil was grinning too. “I’ll push.”

>>===>>


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This has been the craziest and most amazing ride and I would not have made it here without all of you guys cheering me on, cheering me up, holding my hand and loving this insane beast of a story just as much as I do. Thank you, thank you so much.
> 
> It kinda kills me to post this, but here it is, the final chapter.
> 
> Anybody ready for a fluffy(ish), smutty(ish) payoff? I know I am. I told you we'd make it.
> 
> Love you all, you have no idea.
> 
> Enjoy! x

>>===>>

Medical, as it turned out, were a little more enthusiastic about taking care of Clint than either he or Phil would have liked. First they insisted on cleaning him up, then putting him on a drip for the dehydration and then taking blood for all kinds of tests (Clint accused them of doing extra to get revenge for all the times he’d skipped out of treatment early and the medic’s smile suggested that perhaps he wasn’t wrong) and all that was even before they’d even looked at his leg. Eventually, as the list of procedures went on with no end in sight, Clint waved at Phil from between the mass of scrubs and white coats around his bed and told him go to sort out their ride home,

“because there’s nothing you can do here and if you hang about these vampires’ll probably start sticking needles in you too or something. You should go bag us a car.”

Phil was still uneasy, reluctant to be far from his soulmate, but he knew Clint would value a quick exit and could see the point in being practical. “You’re sure?” 

“ ‘m sure. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.” 

It was harder than he’d thought to turn and leave him, but if Clint could do it.... Phil headed for the door but was brought up short when the _bind_ tugged sharply. “Phil?” Clint called, making him turn.

“Yes?”

Apparently the medics hadn’t gotten all Clint’s blood yet because suddenly a faint blush appeared on his cheeks, “Don’t be long.”

Phil’s heart did a very undignified flipflop and it was possible he coloured a little himself, “I won’t.”

>>===>>

Phil sped down the floors to his office trying very hard to walk as fast as humanly possible while still projecting ‘senior agent in an important hurry’ rather than ‘newly _soulbound_ man desperate to get back to his partner’. Mostly it seemed to work because the few agents he encountered quickly jumped out of his way. Perhaps the expression on his face was not to be argued with. In any case he moved through the Trisk in his own bubble, pushing people aside, their hurried conversations quickly cutting off at his approach and then starting again as soon as they thought he was out of earshot. The moving corridor of whispers would have been disconcerting if Phil had had a brain cell available to spare thinking about it but at least nobody dared to slow him down.

Until he reached the very door of his office and was hailed by Sitwell just as he went to open it. “Phil!” Sitwell exclaimed, “How are you? I heard about you and Hawkeye, wow. How are you doing? I mean, this place was in full gossip meltdown. How are you feeling?”

Bless Jasper for asking the obvious question. But what could he say?

Quickly, Phil took stock. The bone-deep weariness and various hurts of a mission completed. His ruined suit and bloodstained shirt. His back aching from dozing upright, his thigh still imprinted with Clint’s warmth, stomach still rolling from bracing to watch his career turn to ashes and seeing it soar instead, blood singing with adrenaline from that almost kiss. The embarrassment of having his personal life exhibited in from of the whole of his agency and the fierce pride of knowing that everyone knew that he claimed Clint as his and that Clint claimed him right back and just as hard. The wonderful, warm, welcome weight in his heart and the incessant tingling of his skin which demanded unstoppably and right _now_ the touch of his soulmate. The desire to fight, fuck, smile, laugh, cry and curl up in a small ball all at once. He assessed, looked for a word to describe it all and came up utterly wanting.

In the end, Phil settled for telling the plain truth. “Do you know what Jasper?” he said, stepping into his office, “I’ll tell you when I figure it out. Right now, I have absolutely no bloody idea.” He was grinning even as he shut the door behind him.

>>===>>

One phone call to the car pool, the world’s fastest shower and a lightning change into a fresh shirt and suit later and Phil raced back to the medical wing just in time. As he rounded the last corner Clint emerged from his room, freshly washed and squeezed into new S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sweats and t-shirt. Well, now one of the confused mêlée of feelings was certainly starting to climb to the surface because the way the black fabric clung to the curves of Clint’s shoulders and chest like a second skin dried Phil’s mouth almost instantly and stole his words completely. It was indecently tight, even for Clint, and Phil had to take a second to remind himself quite firmly that they were still in public and at work so for god’s sake pull yourself together Coulson! Clint caught him looking, shrugged and scrubbed a hand shyly at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I know, they didn’t have any my size.”

“It looks…” Phil croaked, swallowed, and tried again, “It looks fine. Good, even. You look good. Fine.” 

Phil’s awesome coherence obviously impressed Clint and his mouth quirked up, “Yeah?” 

“Yes. Absolutely yes.” Phil looked away and changed the subject, before he lost his composure completely, “You’re all done here?”

“All patched up.” Clint pulled up a his trouser leg to show a bright blue gel dressing running up the back of his calf, covering his new stitches, “I have to keep this thing on and go easy on the leg for a few days. Otherwise passed with flying colours and free to go. Also, the painkillers in this jelly stuff are fucking amazing. Not too bad, considering.”

“Not too bad,” Phil agreed gladly. “The car’s good to go downstairs. Ready?”

Clint, already walking, smirked back over his shoulder, “Oh, very much more than.”

>>===>>

The car also came with a driver, a junior agent who was visibly shocked when Phil bypassed the open driver’s door to slide in to the backseat. It was understandable, Phil usually wouldn’t have given up the wheel for anything short of a missing limb, but tonight there was no question of him sitting anywhere other than with Clint. Wild crocodiles couldn’t have wrestled him into any other seat.

They rode back in silence. Partly this was because the way the junior agent’s eyes kept flicking into the rear view mirror and the way his ears were almost visibly straining made it quite clear that he had heard all about their dramatic _match_ . Phil really didn’t want to either add to the inevitable on-base gossip or up in an RTA. But also because, well, at this point what else needed saying? Fury’s careful, clever manipulation had made sure that they’d both laid their cards squarely on the table and they’d both known the truth when they’d heard it spoken. 

Not trusting his tongue Phil instead watched the lights streaking past his window and wondered how the city could be there looking exactly the same when his world had changed so thoroughly and dramatically. Was this how soulmates always felt? Mentally, he prodded at the _bind_ where it hung between him and Clint almost tangibly. Not telepathy, he couldn’t tell what Clint was thinking, and not the constant nag the _pull_ had been, it was an awareness all the same, a sense of Clint being ‘there’. What was it May had said all that time ago? Like a blanket. Phil understood that image now. He was wrapped in the presence of Clint and it did feel good. Secure, safe. 

And also, to be honest, just a bit nerve-wracking. 

Because, yes, the baseline feeling was like contentment but above that the _bind_ buzzed with a tension that was steadily building, winding tighter and tighter the closer they got to home. 

Home. 

His home, and now Clint’s.

The buzzing surged. Carefully, Phil rubbed his hands together, digging a thumb into the centre of one tingling palm and then the other and trying to keep his breathing even. Across the car Clint breathed in hard and shifted in his seat. Turning, his eyes met Phil’s in the window’s reflection and they were watching him so intensely that Phil honestly didn’t dare to look round and actually see Clint for fear of doing something very undignified. Instead he reached back with his palm open. When Clint took his hand again the shock of his warmth was enough to make Phil jump, genuinely surprised that the air didn’t crackle. Behind him, Clint huffed a quiet laugh then mouthed “Me too.” into the glass. He ghosted his thumb across Phil’s wrist, smiling again when it made Phil shiver. Up front, the junior agent’s ears turned an alarming shade of pink.

It was a very long car ride.

>>===>>

After what seemed an age, but thankfully before either of them had managed to embarrass themselves completely, they arrived at Phil’s place. Not quite scrambling out of the car they made their way up to Phil’s floor as quickly as Clint could manage, (which was actually pretty fast for a man with a busted leg) all the way throwing heated glances back and forth and grinning like a pair of teenagers. Phil reached the door first and ran his finger sharply over the scanner, impatient to get Clint inside and finally all to himself, but when the door actually opened, his blood ran cold. 

The apartment seemed filled with shadows. 

He hadn’t, he realised as he walked in, been back here since that last awful morning and the sudden image of Clint’s face as he’d last seen him, as he’d left him, riven with a mix of puzzlement and pain, halted his desire clean in its tracks. The S.H.I.E.L.D. movers sent by Nick had obviously been there recently but while they’d apparently tidied, folded up the couch and even washed up the pancake pan they couldn’t erase that picture. Jesus. What an idiot he’d been. A cruel idiot who surely couldn’t deserve…

“Hey,” Clint, following close behind must have sensed the abrupt change of mood, felt the _bind_ going tight because suddenly he was against Phil, talking. “hey, Phil, come on, don’t. It wasn’t just you, you know.” He touched Phil’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, “Don’t, we’re good, it’s alright.”

“I know, I…know. Just…” twisting out from under Clint’s hand he tried to muster a casual tone, “I’ll…get us a drink shall I? You...sit. You sit and I’ll get a drink…” and almost ran to the kitchen.

The inside of the fridge was out of sight of the lounge so Phil stood with his head stuck through the door, willing the cold to shock some sense back into his stupid brain. Frustrated, he pinched himself. What was he doing? Out there in his lounge was Clint Barton, his new soulmate, his best friend, not to mention the man he’d been pining after for years, so what was he doing having a panic and hiding in the goddamned fridge? The sick lurch the memory had given him was no excuse. Clint must have some of the same and now he’d left him alone to deal with it! Again! Damn. He was better than that. He’d promised Clint that he would be better than that and he damn well would be. _Needed_ to be. If Clint could walk back in here and face that memory when he was the one who’d been so much more hurt, then Phil could too.

No matter how hard his heart was pounding. 

For god’s sake he was meant to be a senior agent, not some shivering wreck! Enough. He made himself straighten up and shut the door. 

“Okay,” Phil said, coming back round to where Clint could see him, “There’s not a lot of choice, I’m afraid. I have beer which should be alright with that type of painkiller, or at least I hope so because it’s that or some very questionable milk which I think is actually old enough that I should be getting it college applications…” he trailed off at the sight of Clint still standing in the lounge. No, not standing, hovering, as if he didn’t know quite where to put himself. He was still smiling, but it was small and crooked.

“Beer’s fine.” he sounded uncertain, wistful, and Phil’s guts clenched even harder than before.

“Clint?” he walked further into the room, stopped a few feet away, facing him, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Clint laughed shakily, “it’s just, kinda weird, being here again. Seems a long time since our last Monopoly game,” he half shrugged, “and it’s not even Friday.”

He looked on a knife edge, balancing on the edge of upset and just no. Phil could not, would not allow that. Could not be the cause of that again. 

Alright. Time to be brave. And maybe time to make a few new memories to chase out the old. He summoned up a tentative smile.

“Well…you’ll have to get used to that I suppose. Being here every day.” He waved towards the smallish pile of brown boxes which Clint apparently hadn’t clocked, stacked up by the back wall. “After all, Nick’s a fast worker. Looks like you live here now.”

“Yeah?” Clint glanced over in surprise then cocked his head back at Phil, “I do?”

Phil nodded. “You do.” Clint just looked at him for a long moment, not speaking, his expression not quite readable. The pause stretched out, so Phil added, “Please.” and after longer still, “If…if that’s okay.”

“It is okay by me. Very okay actually.” Clint took a step closer but now his face was drawn tight and serious, “But Phil, we have to talk about something. There’s something you have to know.”

Phil’s belly lurched sickly. So here it came, the reproof for his failings earlier, the inevitable recriminations and consequences. 

He’d known this had to happen.

Fair enough. 

He looked down and braced himself for whatever Clint might need to say, “Yes?”

“I leave my socks on the bedroom floor.”

Phil’s head snapped up so smartly he might have feared whiplash, “What?” 

“My socks.” Clint’s voice was smooth and cool and still talking incomprehensible nonsense. “I leave them on the bedroom floor. I mean, I don’t mean to, they just seem to kinda to end up there somehow. So I hope that’s not a deal-breaker.”

Phil looked at Clint’s hard face, incredulous. What in hell’s name..?

And then he saw them, the tiny tells. Clint’s expression was still studiously serious but his pursed lips were twitching as if holding something back and his eyes were bright with mischief. 

Oh. Ohhh.

Phil me his gaze and finally there it was, there _they_ still were, after all. The _bind_ glowed, that sick, left-over panic leeched away and everything was easy again, fun and easy between them like it had always been. The silliness, the teasing, the banter. He’d missed it and here it was again, now with a newer, hotter undercurrent. Well, if that was Clint’s game Phil was more than willing to play. 

Cocking an eyebrow deliberately suggestively Phil drawled, “ _I_ drink straight from the milk carton.”

“You do?” Clint huffed out hard, a half-throttled, pleased little noise, “The carton?”

Phil nodded slowly, eyes wide and innocent. “Every day.”

Clint narrowed his own eyes, “I finish food and put the empty packets back in the cupboard,” he said, half threat, half seduction, stepping a little closer.

Phil copied the move and took a step of his own, “I keep drawers full of stationary I’ll never use, just because it’s pretty.”

“I like lots of shower gels to choose from and I’ll fill the bathroom with bottles.”

“I’ll always be turning down the heat and opening windows.”

“I make grilled cheese at midnight.”

“I work until 4am.”

“I’ve never kept a houseplant alive more than a week.”

“I binge-watch Supernanny when I’m stressed.” 

“I hog the covers.”

“I have feet like blocks of ice.”

The exchange of ‘faults’ had brought them almost within arms length, and they were each working hard to hold their composure even as their smiles trembled just on the edges of breaking free.

Still staring him down and obviously feeling he was playing his trump card, Clint took a confident stride,“ _I_ ,” he declared airily, “ _snore_.”

It was the note of triumph that broke Phil and he couldn’t hold it anymore, he laughed, “I know that already. You sing in your sleep too.”

Clint frowned. “I do?”

“You do. Often. Sometimes in Russian. When you were crashing out here I could hear you from my bed.” Taking that last tiny step wasn’t optional, he just had to be within touching distance, “Oh god Clint,” he breathed, the truth spilling out of him unplanned, “I do love you. And I think we’ll manage.”

Clint froze, blinked, then lunged and grabbed for Phil’s hand, grinning wildly, “Screw manage. Because I love you right back Phil, and I think we’ll be _awesome_.”

The _bind_ flooded with a riotous wave that almost took Phil off his feet, and might have if not for Clint’s hand holding him like an anchor, keeping him steady against the tide. Some his and some Clint’s and all theirs, it was a huge, nameless feeling, sweet, happy, incredulous, grateful, and so much more than any of those, all making up an almost overwhelming whole. There was no fighting it so they simply stood together and basked in the incredulous happiness, just standing, staring, drinking in the reality of each other and of finally being _there_. 

It was entirely possible that they’d have stayed that way for the rest of the night except that beneath the sweetness of it something else was coming back, something sharp and hot and needy, buzzing like the electricity from the drive over and becoming more and more insistent. Phil felt it fizz across his skin, filling him again with that squirming anticipation, that want, saw Clint’s eyes widen when it touched him. They shivered in unison and stood frozen in a delicious pause, each second ratcheting them tighter and tighter. Phil wondered briefly who was going to break first. 

He didn’t have to wonder long. Eventually, and with calculated exaggeration, Clint coughed. “Phil,” he said, slyly, delivering each word in a slow, teasing drawl, “I just realised. I mean, yeah, we’re _matched_ , and in _love_ , and even living together now, and yeah, that’s all great and everything, but, come on, really? It’s not right. ” he pulled a face, voice rising high and indignant, “You’ve never even kissed me.”  
.  
Phil let himself smile, rich, slow and dirty, holding Clint’s eyes until he blushed faintly. Then with studied care he slipped one hand round Clint to spread a palm into the small of his back and pull him close, “Oh. Have I not?”

“No, you haven’t.” Clint’s studied nonchalance flickered again as he leaned into Phil’s other hand which was sliding round to cup the back of his neck but he kept his voice fairly steady, “But, I mean, whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.”

Gentle pressure bent Clint’s head down until Phil was breathing hot against his cheek, not entirely able to stop his grip from trembling at the heat coiling tight in his belly, “Quite. Still, I really think I ought to do something about it.”

Clint’s whole frame shuddered, his hands coming up to clutch hard at Phil’s waist as he gave up all pretence of indifference, “Yes. Please.”

Phil meant to keep the kiss slow and careful, he really did, but the heat in that ‘please’ and the way Clint pushed back at the first brush of Phil’s mouth against his stole any hope of control. His lips were warm and soft, softer than Phil had allowed himself to remember on those shitty, lonely, nights in Portland, and he claimed them hungrily, pulling Clint’s head down hard to crush their mouths together. It was rough, even awkward, at first all bumping teeth and noses, but then Phil twisted his head just a bit and suddenly they _fit_ , mouth sliding together with perfect pressure, two halves of a whole. 

Which, Phil realised, was what they were and the thought flooded him with a strange possessive tenderness. They were two parts of the same thing, and this was where they belonged, _together_. 

He didn’t have much time to be poetic about it however. 

Clint, who at first had just whined into Phil’s onslaught, suddenly pushed forward to match it, licking at the seam of Phil’s lips and demanding an entry he was only too happy to grant. The depth of Phil’s groan was lost, half-swallowed as Clint’s tongue invaded and explored every inch of his mouth, twisting slickly with his own tongue, running along the back of his teeth, almost sending his knees buckling. The instant Clint drew back for air Phil found himself surging forward again, sucking Clint’s plush bottom lip into his mouth, nipping it, worrying it between his teeth then mouthing a messy trail of kisses up his throat to do the same to his earlobe. He felt Clint’s gasp as much as he heard it and the way it made them both shake took his own breath and turned it into a high keening moan. His thigh had somehow found its way between Clint’s and Clint rocked insistently against it, his hands twisted so tightly into the back of Phil’s shirt so that he almost tore into the fabric when Phil pulled his head back to suck a red mark onto his throat. Phil’s hand on Clint’s back kept them snug together, bodies hard, hot and almost merging in their fever to get closer, closer, to get nearer, to get _more_. When Clint strained against Phil’s grip he loosened it and turned to meet him, shuddered as Clint took his mouth again and gave himself up to the kiss. They were all heat and want and needy desperation and between them the _bind_ twisted and curled, intense and incredible, reflecting every sensation until Phil legitimately feared he might loose his mind in the sharp messy perfection of it all.

He wouldn’t particularly have noticed.

Or cared.

Eventually his lungs insisted on oxygen and he had to break away, backing off just minutely until he could press his forehead against Clint’s. Their panting breaths mixed hotly and his fingers were still buried in Clint’s hair, holding him firmly in place as if the world would end if he went even the tiniest bit further away. It wasn’t particularly dignified, but given that one of Clint’s hands was still fisted messily in his shirt and the other gripped his hip tightly enough that Phil fully expected he’d have five perfectly circular bruises, he was pretty sure he wasn’t alone in not caring much about dignity. Gasping, dizzy, he stood with mouth still full of the heat and taste of Clint and knew without doubt that he was absolutely the most privileged man who had ever walked the earth. 

His hand, apparently of its own accord, came down to take Clint’s forearm and lift it so that Phil could rest his cheek against the bright red soulwords that marked Clint as his. Clint moaned and his eyes fluttered shut as Phil pressed his lips to the soft skin in the crook of his elbow. When he opened them again they were dark, pupils blown wide. Drawing a shaky breath he asked, “Phil. Can I see?” and the need in his voice punched Phil to the core again.

Wordlessly Phil nodded, stepped back and began to work his way down the buttons of his shirt. All the while he watched Clint watching him, and he was doing it with such hungry Hawkeye focus that Phil felt as good as naked already. The damn buttons were tiny and Phil’s fingers were still shaking so the operation wasn’t exactly smooth but eventually he managed to pull the tails out of his pants and shrug the shirt back, opening it up, baring his soulwords to Clint for the first time. His breath came hard, his chest heaved. For what seemed an age just Clint stared, then he lifted unsteady fingertips to trace gently across the words. Under that stare Phil couldn’t move and neither could he stop the goosebumps that rippled across his skin. Or the low moan that escaped him when Clint ducked his head and turned them into lightning with a lingering kiss. When he looked up he was smiling wonderingly, wickedly, “They’re really there.” His hand kept moving as he spoke, stroking the words and tugging through Phil’s chest hair, nails scratching teasingly.

Jesus.

Phil swallowed, hard, “They…they really are.”

“And,” Clint added, delightedly, running his tongue along the scrawled lines with a delicacy that was frankly nothing short of devious, swirling it wetly on Phil’s flesh, “they’re purple.”

Despite his sudden and abrupt lack of breath the sheer joy in Clint’s voice was infectious, and Phil gasped out a strangled laugh. “Ahh, hhh…of course they are,” he nodded weakly at the fluffy purple blanket folded neatly on the couch, the purple travel mug on the counter, “did you really expect anything else?”

Clint shook his head, “To be perfectly honest Phil, I never expected any of this.” He said, suddenly earnest again. He stood to put his warm hand flat against Phil’s chest and grinned, “But I’m so fucking grateful to have it.”

Phil thought his heart might actually explode, though he couldn’t say whether from absolute frustrated desire or sheer wonder. Maybe both. “Me too.” he said, hoping Clint would understand just how much he meant it, “Oh god, me too.”

It seemed very much like they were about to have another of those long moments when they couldn’t do anything but look amazedly at each other, when abruptly Clint winced and shifted his weight.

“Shit!” Phil’s eyebrows shot up, “You’re meant to be resting that leg!” he moved to take some of Clint’s weight and tried to regain focus, “Erm, I can crack the couch? We could put our feet up, watch a movie? Or, uh, if you… if you…want…” Phil trailed off, looked quickly down and away, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“The second one.” Clint cut in quickly, “I want the second one.”

Phil snorted. “I didn’t even finish the second one.”

“Phillip J. Coulson,” Clint’s voice was practically a growl, “you just looked at my lips, then the bedroom door and then you _blushed_. And I can’t think of a single thing involving that combination that I wouldn’t want.”

A bolt of outright want shot strong and hot through Phil and he dragged Clint down into another messy and extremely thorough kiss just because he absolutely had to. By the time he’d finished Clint’s lips were red and swollen and he looked a little dazed. 

“Not a single thing?” Phil asked.

“Not one.”

“Well, in that case…”

“Race you to the bedroom, loser has to kiss the winner!” Clint declared, limping away at surprising speed. Phil stared at his retreating back for a split second, just because the view was so magnificent, then grinned and raced after him.

>>===>>

They hit the bed together and fell laughing into the sheets, hands already reaching for each other, sliding into and under fabric to undo fastenings and to find skin as all the waiting, longing, hiding and want crashing over them in a wave and drove them together in a frantic tangle of limbs, discarded clothes and heaving breath. The mutual ‘kiss for the winner’ quickly turned urgent and heated as Phil pinned Clint under him, pressed him into the mattress with his weight.

“Aw, fuck Phil, yes… I…yes, I want you,” Clint gasped into the crook of Phil’s neck as Phil leaned down and ran his tongue around the shell of his ear, and he bucked his hips up hard when Phil’s teeth grazed down his throat, “jesus, god, _christ_ , I want you. Ahhh, shit,…I, oh _fuck_ , need you…need you to touch me…”

Phil was so much more than happy to oblige. Quickly pulling Clint up, he tore away first the ludicrous t-shirt and then the sweats, ran his hands over and over his golden fever-hot skin, his broad shoulders, the planes of his back, the sweet, sweet curve of his ass. Each new inch revealed a wonder that he simply had to touch, tease, taste, until he had Clint writhing. Clint’s hands struggled at his belt buckle, pushed him back into the pillows, stripped him down and then suddenly Clint was straddling him, rolling his hips as he leaned down for another frantic kiss and Phil swore as their naked lengths ground together, “ _Shit_ , so, nngh, so _good_ Clint, knew, knew you would be…knew you’d be so good…”

Dimly, he was aware that it wasn’t exactly going to be the most sophisticated or skilled sex either of them had ever had but he also knew it wasn’t about that. They would have time, lots and lots of time, days and nights to get to know each other’s secrets, to learn how to draw their pleasure out and to have each other screaming, but that wasn’t today, wasn’t now. Now was _now_ , the affirmation of everything they felt, proof that they’d made it out of everything they’d gone through and he couldn’t have paused or slowed if he’d tried. Right now he’d just wanted Clint so _fucking much_ and for _so fucking long_ that he thought he might pass out from it, and the certain, _bind_ -fuelled knowledge that Clint wanted him the same way sent him hurtling toward the edge faster than anything he’d ever known. 

The room contracted into a heady blur of their touch and heat, of sheets and sweat and skin, teeth and tongues, _ohyesohfuckinggodyes_ and _nownownownownow_. The _bind_ took it all from them, amplifed it, and gave it back, each touch becoming stronger, harder, deeper, _more_ , 

“Yes, shit, yes…. that, like that…”

“There, right there…again, _yes_ , again,” 

“agai… ohhh _fuck_!”

They sobbed words into each other’s skin until Phil lost track of who was saying what, who was doing what to who and he didn’t care, it didn’t matter because it was all amazing and awesome and all _theirs_. The line between his body and Clint’s, between _him_ and Clint, blurred then merged, then was lost completely, melting under their heat. He’d never, _they’d_ never, never _ever_ felt this good. It was desperate, demented and dirty and it just kept _going_. Bodies writhing, rising, rutting, they met in endless, gorgeous friction that swallowed Phil whole. Clint was in his hands and under his hands, steel hard and blood hot, and Clint’s hands were on him, in him, around him and his mouth, oh holy _god_ , his _mouth_! Sweat slick, sliding skin on skin and through it all that unwavering, unfaltering Hawkeye focus breaking him down, turning him upside down and inside out until he was almost screaming after all, “More, oh god…more, please, fuck, I’m… Clint, I’m going to…I’m… _Clint_ …”

and he was done, gone, vision whiting out, back arched taut, spilling over Clint’s fingers, shuddering, shaking, clawing for the breath to gasp his name. The hand gripping Clint clenched, dragging him close and Phil held him, moved hard against him until Clint howled and followed him over, his fingers digging into Phil’s back as he shook apart. Steadily, Phil rolled his hips, working them through the shocks until it was over for them both and they collapsed back into the tangled sheets, the only sounds their harsh breathing and Clint’s stunned, “Oh. Oh _Phil_.”

It was by far and away the best moment of Phil’s life.

The absolute apex and pinnacle.

And it was totally eclipsed not ten seconds later when Clint wriggled over and tucked himself under Phil’s arm. Head resting on Phil’s still heaving chest he flung one leg over his thighs and clung like a particularly cuddly octopus, nuzzling into Phil’s chest hair and sighing. His hand, flung out to curl over Phil’s shoulder, brought his forearm up and over so that their words lay together, red on purple, and he held on like he had no intention of ever letting go. Between them, the _bind_ purred.

They lay quietly in the soft dark until Phil recovered some breath, enough to kiss the top of Clint’s head, “Hey you.”

He felt Clint’s smile against his chest. “Hey yourself.”

“How’s your leg?”

Clint blinked owlishly, “Still attached? Possibly? T’be honest baby, right now I dunno and I don’t much care.” He yawned and stretched a little, flexing along Phil’s side like a fully satisfied cat, “All I know right now is that I feel totally _amazing_.” He snuggled further under Phil’s arm. “You?”

Phil considered for a moment then shook his head wonderingly, “I don’t think there’s a word big enough for how I feel right now.”

What would have been Clint’s smug laugh was blurred by another yawn, “Sleep on it?”

Phil smiled and pulled Clint in tight, because he had no intention of ever letting go either. “Absolutely.”

Red and purple, purple on red, he fell asleep with the colours singing.

>>===>>

According to the bedside clock it was a couple of hours later when Phil stirred. He was wonderfully warm. Somehow in their sleep he and Clint had twisted even further together and now Clint was partially spooned up behind him, though still with one leg thrown over Phil’s, and he had Phil cocooned up in his arms. He lay like a heavy blanket, his breathing steady. It was possibly both the least and yet most comfortable Phil had ever been and he let himself drift in it for a while, only rousing when his stomach gurgled softly. Perhaps it was time to get up and get something for them to eat. And maybe get cleaned up a little given the frankly ludicrous amount of half-dried stickiness there seemed to be streaked on the both of them, because though remembering how it got there might make his cheeks hot and other parts of him stir, still. A hot cloth wouldn’t kill either of them. Carefully he started to ease himself free of Clint’s embrace, hoping to get out and back without disturbing him, but apparently Clint was at least a little awake already and his arms tightened like a vice. He growled into the nape of Phil’s neck, lazily, lovingly, 

“Don’t twitch. Don’t even twitch or you’re dead.”

The air around them crystallised. 

Clint stiffened, gulped in a breath, but before he could say anything else Phil snorted. Then giggled. And then roared. He laughed until his breath came short and tears ran down his face because it was ridiculous, absurd and ridiculous and just fucking wonderful. How could it possibly be that when for most of his life he’d hated his words, not just hated them but feared them and honestly hoped never to hear them, that now he was _here_ , lying in the arms of his _match_ , his lover, his soul, and suddenly the same words were an in-joke? Even an endearment? How in hell had that happened?

It looked like _find_ and bind were going to be even better than even his idealistic childhood self had been able to imagine. 

And that wasn’t even taking into account the _never you mind…_

So yes.

Absolutely the luckiest man on the planet. 

It was too much, too much to hold in and the thought sent him off into another round of elated giggling, Clint just holding on, apparently accepting his antics without needing words. Perhaps sharing it through the _bind_ was explanation enough.

Gradually Phil got himself under control, stopped shaking and once he felt Clint relax too he wriggled back against him, sighing contentedly. He was just beginning to drift again when Clint nudged him gently in the ribs, twice in rapid succession, the gesture clearly saying ‘your turn’. But what did he…Oh. Of course.

Happily, Phil turned and buried his nose into the hollow of Clint’s throat, “Barton. Talk to me.”

It was another game, so he didn’t really expect a reply, but as always, Clint surprised him. His lips brushed lightly against Phil’s temple and then they were at Phil’s ear as he whispered, “Goodnight, my soul.”

If there had been any last miniscule doubts left in Phil’s heart they were utterly burned away.

Clint’s mouth was a sweet as his words and the kiss Phil claimed was long enough and thorough enough that soon any thoughts of further sleep were totally and completely forgotten by them both.

And when at length they were finally well-sated and curling back into each other’s arms again, it hit Phil with the shock of a straight-shot arrow. Of course. The word he’d been missing, the one big enough to describe all he’d been feeling. The one… majestic enough to describe him _and_ Clint, to put a name to what they’d become.

Of course he knew it, and that knowledge was everything because it meant neither of them would ever be alone again. They’d both been there, they’d even put each other there, but now they never had to go back.

Yes, their _bind_ was new and crazy and untested. And yes, he supposed that eventually there would be more talking and reality and hard work to intrude on the perfect bubble they’d made for themselves tonight in their new home, in their sweat-soaked and paradisal bed, but none of that really mattered.

Whatever came, Phil knew it would be alright.

They would be alright.

Of course they would be.

Because now, they were together, as they should be.

Now, they were _found_.

 

>>===>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy? Me too. And I'd be so much happier if you can spare two minutes to drop me a comment with your final thoughts :)
> 
> >>===>>
> 
> Ah, right, you noticed. Yes, the chapter count went up again. My brain did a bit of a thing. You'll see x


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The story was finished last chapter, it really was. And thank you all so much for your amazing comments, really!
> 
> But my brain just wouldn't stop thinking and this is the result. I'm....kinda sorry.
> 
> If this story was a Marvel film, this would be the end credits scene.
> 
> Enjoy x

>>===>>

“What. The. Fuck.” Clint stopped dead in the S.H.I.E.L.D. canteen doorway, and turned to Phil who had narrowly missed crashing into his back. “Seriously. Am I hallucinating? What. The actual. Fuck.”

Phil peered over his shoulder and balked. “Ah, right. Yes. I see what you mean.”

The canteen was transformed. The usual rows of chipped formica tables were gone; pushed to the sides of the room and covered with lush table cloths in jewel purple and silverish dark grey, all weighed-down with plates of fancy-looking nibbles. The space left in the middle was now a dancefloor and several agents were already taking advantage, none of them apparently bothered by the fact that it was full of purple and silver balloons. In fact some of them were kicking the balloons about playfully, though the luminous purple drinks he could see in several hands might explain that at least. 

Then there was the glitter. 

Everywhere Clint looked there was glitter. From the tables to the cakes to the wineglasses (you could glitter wineglasses? It was news to him) and especially to the twinkling of the disco ball turning gently in the newly canopied roof, everything, literally everything, sparkled. It was pretty mesmerising. A sudden cheer rose from the back of the room and when Clint looked in that direction he almost choked in surprise. Yet more agents were drinking purple drinks and aiming, oh god, _really?_ purple nerf bows at precariously stacked towers of official-looking forms and junior agent Bettany was taking a round of high-fives after sending a pile of paperwork tumbling in a shower of silver sparks. 

Carnival games. Themed, glittering, actual honest-to-god carnival games. 

And to top it all off, over the very centre of the dancefloor there hung a huge banner proclaiming ‘Congratulations Coulson and Hawkeye!’ in mind-bendingly shimmering letters. 

Clint could hardly take it all in.

Knowing his mouth was hanging open, he looked back at Phil, “What?”

Phil’s own mouth twisted into an awkward little smile, “Ah. You remember when I said I’d asked May to take over the organising for our binding party because we had to take Delta away for training?” Clint nodded. “Well, apparently I may have forgotten that she has a thing for decorations. And organising. Plus a twisted sense of humour and apparently no concept of what someone means when they say ‘keep it small’.”

“You don’t say.” Clint shook his head wonderingly, “I thought we were going for a few drinks with a few friends and ‘maybe a cake’?”

Phil’s smile twisted more, became a grimace. “It’s too much isn’t it?” he winced, “I mean I wanted it to be a surprise and I told her a bit about the circus, your, you know, costume and a few other things, gave her a few of my ideas but I didn’t actually expect her to do every single thing I’d thought about.” He looked as shell-shocked as Clint felt, shocked and nervously apologetic, “She sent me the plans, and it looked...” Phil bit his lip. “But it is, it’s too much. You think it’s too much.”

It was a lot, Clint had to admit, it was a lot. A whole shiny, shimmery fuck-tonne of a lot. More than he’d ever imagined and waaay beyond what he would have organised for them himself. But knowing that there was someone not only willing to consent to make a _bind_ with him but also to make such an absurdly theatrical, happy and public statement about it? To enlist friends to make this crazy vision happen? And _then_ on top of all that, knowing that that someone was stoical, badass, usually-so-private-at-work _Agent Phil Coulson?_

Fuck, it just about turned him inside out with love and pride. 

Speechless, Clint pulled Phil to him, pried his abused bottom lip from between his teeth and kissed him slowly and thoroughly until Phil was quite pink. “Baby, I think it’s perfect.”

“Of course it is, I planned it.” May, who had sauntered up while they were distracted, was smirking like the cat who’d gotten not only the cream but the keys to the dairy, “And it’s perfectly appropriate. You’ve already had the most dramatic _find_ and _bind_ in S.H.I.E.L.D. history, naturally the celebration has to match the event.” 

Well, Clint couldn’t fault her logic there because as far as he was concerned it never hurt to feed the legend. Not that he and Phil weren’t awesome enough on their own, but hey, it was always good to get more gilding on the lilacs and all that. Or was it glitter? Lilies? Either way, anything that would make their own personal flower that bit more impressive was okay with him. He gave her wide grin of thanks.

May nodded graceful acceptance and eyed his shirt, “Clint, nice of you to stick to the dress code.” Clint shrugged, because honestly, when was he not wearing purple? and then had to bite his own lip to keep from laughing when she rounded on Phil and, quick as a striking snake, whipped away his dark tie, “You on the other hand…” just as quickly she replaced it with a purple and silver striped, glitter-shot monstrosity. The look on Phil’s face was adorably horrified and dumbfounded. “Better. Now, Phillip Coulson, I do believe you still owe me a dance.” 

Apparently relaxing into her carefully crafted insanity Phil raised a questioning eyebrow at Clint over May’s head and Clint couldn’t help laughing as he rolled his eyes in an exaggerated ‘go on’. Phil blew him a kiss, then squared his shoulders and straightened his sparkling tie.

“Melinda,” he said, his small smile making him impossibly more handsome, “I do believe you’re correct. If you’ll allow me?” May gracefully nodded her assent and Clint watched Phil take her arm and whirl her away into the sea of balloons.

Happily watching them, Clint snagged a drink (blackcurrant and plum vodka martini, delicious and made all the better by the silver glitter) and walked the room. He skirted the edges of the dancefloor, waving and smiling as people greeted him, patted his back, extended their congratulations, all the while admiring the way Phil spun and led May through eye-catchingly flashy steps, no doubt learned for some cover or other. Phil was almost unbearably gorgeous under the soft lights and Clint was just starting to entertain some seriously detailed and location-inappropriate thoughts about the way he was apparently able to swivel his hips while lowering May into a lengthy dip (seriously, why hadn’t he known Phil could move like that? It was a skill, that’s what it was, and one he intended to exploit as soon and as thoroughly as possible) when Natasha appeared at his elbow.

“Hello, Tiny Hawk. Enjoying yourself?”

“Nat!” he grinned “It’s a booze-fuelled, purple, glittery embarrassment of a party. Of course I’m enjoying myself.”

“Good.” she sipped her dark purple vodka and eyed him carefully over the rim of glass. “And you’re happy?”

Knowing it was a serious question deserving of a serious answer, Clint swallowed the instinctive, instant and flippant reply. Instead, he took a long moment to look around. Over by the wall Sitwell and May’s Andrew were hogging the cake table, apparently sampling everything and dissolving into some kind of mutual sugargasm, and just past them were Bobbi and her soulmate Hunter, attracting a growing crowd of junior agents as they decimated the coconut shy. Further across the dancefloor he spotted Evans and Mackie making valiant attempts out do each other in looking impressive while chatting up Agent Hand and Clint was generous enough to sincerely hope that they were drunk enough that they wouldn’t remember the look on her face in the morning. Even Fury had showed, sitting with Hill in a shadowy corner and sending Clint a slow nod which was as good as a fanfare of approval. The whole room was bursting with friends, colleagues and well-wishers, he had Natasha by his side and in the centre of everything, still dancing, was Phil. Glorious, beautiful, impossible Phil who was nothing he’d expected, everything he’d ever dared want and so much more. His throat felt tight with sheer joy.

“You know what Nat? I am happy. I really fucking am.” On impulse he wrapped an arm round and pulled her in for a sideways hug. “Back on those nights, the carriage, we talked about soulmates, didn’t we? And I said all I wanted was for my _find_ to lead me to a better life? You know I gave that dream up a long time ago but it still somehow came true. And I’ll tell you,” he sighed, “this life does get better every day. Every single fucking day.”

Nat snorted as she usually did when he got a little too sentimental for her tastes but the warmth in her eyes belied the dry tone and she allowed the hug long beyond her usual PDA boundaries, “I believe you _yastrebka_ , and I’m happy for you. Very happy. Fairytales can come true after all.”

The shadow was tiny but he wasn’t Hawkeye for nothing. He narrowed his eyes. “Nat….”

“No.” She cut him off and disentangled herself from his arm, “Not tonight. Tonight is about you, and Phil and your new life together. But, seeing as he is still busy, you can come with me.” She’d kept hold of his hand and she started to lead him away towards the games stalls, “A certain Bobbi Morse has bet that she and Hunter can beat the score reached on the dartboards by any pair, any pair at all. Advantages of a misspent youth she claims. She’s promised cocktails to the winner.” Her smile was gleefully predatory. “Thirsty?” 

The shadow had been firmly packed away and Clint knew he’d get nothing more from her today. Besides, what could be better to chase away any darkness than an old-fashioned hustle? It was a party after all. He fell easily into step with her, eyes gleaming, “Oh, absolutely.”

>>===>>

It was a long, messy and wonderful night and Clint ended it exactly where he wanted to be, rocking in Phil’s arms as the last slow song played. They weren’t exactly dancing, but the pose meant that they could stay close enough that he could press himself against Phil’s chest and let Phil card his fingers through his hair so it was more than fine with him. Half-drunk, more than tipsy on vodka and glitter, he let his mouth run away with him, quietly telling Phil what he’d told Natasha. 

“’s true tho’, the _find_ did lead to one. A better…thingy. Life. My life. ’s so much better now.” 

Phil chuckled gently and rubbed small circles into the back of Clint’s neck, “I’m pretty sure you created most of the ‘better’ yourself, Pilot Specialist. Your skills, your hard work.”

“Maybe,” he sighed, sliding his hands up inside Phil’s jacket, searching out his warmth, “but you helped. Lots. You make things better Phil, s’why I love you. You always make things better. One of the whys anyway. I got lots of whys.”

Phil’s hands tightened, squeezing gently, possessively, “I’m glad you think so sweetheart. And I intend to keep doing it, for as long as you’ll let me.” 

“Fr’ever then,” Clint smiled, “unless you decide to get rid of me.” He didn’t mean it, the _bind_ was too solid, too real and glowing between them for him to ever mean it and Phil would know that, but Clint found himself being pulled into a tighter hold anyway.

“Never.” Phil murmured into his hair, “Never ever, my soul”

Clint dropped his head onto Phil’s shoulder and gave himself up, to the feeling, the dance, the embrace of his soul. He hummed contentedly. “Same, love, same.”

“I mean it.” Phil lifted his chin and gave him a firm kiss before snapping him suddenly into a perfect ballroom hold, smiling at Clint’s noise of surprise, “Nothing could make me leave you. Not S.H.I.E.L.D., not Samuels, not, not…” he was laughing now as he spun a startled Clint elegantly out and back and then dipped him with a flourish, “ not wild horses or asteroid attack, not flood or fire or plague or zombies…” 

Almost upside down and breathless Clint couldn’t help but laugh too, “Not even zombies?”

“Not even zombies.” Phil drew him slowly back up and held him, his unwavering gaze warming Clint from the inside, filling him with that familiar electricity, “Clint Barton, it would have to be divine intervention to take you away from me again. Nothing less than an act of god.”

It was impossible for Clint to do anything but kiss him again, clinging as tight as if nobody was watching. 

Honestly, he wouldn’t have known if they were. 

Eventually the music stopped and still they stayed in the centre of the floor, rocking slowly together in the sea of balloons and glitter.

Lost in the moment and their overwhelming happiness.

Lost in each other.

Swaying gently.

Oblivious.

>>===>>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know.
> 
> But there was just no way I could ignore the elephant in the room. Soooo, I'm writing a sequel, and I'm sure you all know where it's going to start.
> 
> It's still in the planning stages so far, plus I have several one-shots and plot bunnies eating a hole in my brain that I want to get done, so I don't expect to be posting hugely soon but it's going to happen. 
> 
> Hope to see you all there x

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback very much desired and appreciated, especially as this isn't quite finished yet!


End file.
